Hopeless

I'm not even sure
that this is a poem
It doesn't keep time
It doesn't even rhyme
It just goes about itself
and remains disengaged
from that same
depth of experience
it once sought to uncover
for both itself and others
but now all it can share
is the memory
of an echo's shadow
an outline
still barely discernible
and unrecognized
by the instincts
of other poems

it just goes through
all these motions—
motions that only
resemble hope