The Rope Of Hope

Red streams are flowing up my pale arms
My hands, raw from clinging  on, the rope.
Painfully cutting slowly my sticky palms.
Hollow and thin, I realise it is not the rope of hope.
Frayed strands are teasing me by tickling.
Gravity pulling on my shoulders, wrenching them out
Scratched wrists rubbing whilst my feet are dangling
dead and numb. Can't feel them moving about.
My body is stretching like clay.
Worn out, pulled out and bruised
meat, after a tiger's rough play.
I have got nothing only the feeling of being used.
That is what I get for holding on to hope.
I got nothing.
It is hard to cope
When I am losing.