First Sunday of Advent: A Poem

"Exile"

Hope cracks dry
underfoot,
tinder for despair.
Dreams sweaty,
fevered, tossed.
Chewed stories stale in the mouth.
Waiting souring
in curdled expectation.
A promise fatigued.

This is the brittle season.

Burnt eyes
scanning the horizon
for a dawn long delayed.
We wait in the city
of the dead.