Modern Romanticism

A light gave us passage
into sincerity.
Hope never failed us
until we lent it a pale flag.

A storm washed color into white,
deserted our garden as it grew
to be drowned,
down into surrender.

What do we remember,
as we are faceless?
What can we still sever,
of these infinite traces?

That light was a reminder,
not an invitation.
In remembrance, we salvage
nothing we can’t collapse,
over again, in our hands.

In severance, we resurrect
reminder after reminder,
light after signaling light.

In this departure,
we are continuing –
practicing cultivation
for one endless sight.