Hope

Fio was hanging over the email yesterday because she knew two big developments could be coming her way.  Or one could fly and the other could flop.  Or they both could go down.  But when the end is yet unknown, one can still hope, which brings her to a sonnet she's run before, but seems appropriate.  Besides, Fiorella's revised it somewhat:
 

      Hope is a snake that curls within my breast,

     That strikes from time to time--a sharp-tongued dart,

     A blood-cold serpent, most unwelcome guest,

     A venomous viper aimed against my heart.

     Hope  is a Scaramouche, a handsome fool

    

     A honeyed braggart, slick, a worthless flirt,

     A quack deceiver, lord of ridicule,

     Who gulls my brain when I am not alert.

     Hope's a misshaped bloom, a crooked tree,

 

     Which grows unbidden in my dismal yard,

     The honey fruit of which will poison me

     If I fall prey to sweet, let down my guard.

          But do not slay it--let the villain be;

          For murder hope and murder all of me.