Modern Romanticism

Loosen knots,
welcome the light
born after the dark.
Before then, we did reside
inside a cell, within a womb,
as one comforting tomb
for us to hide.

Might we seek
beyond the temptation
to remain behind,
sunken in resignation?

Might we push past
this stagnation that fills
these endless hallways?

Might we come to,
finding our hope in those
pale-blue springs?

There, a hand extends,
viewed in its depths,
in a rippling reflection.
To reach will mean
that we'll abandon
our sickness
to the dust, leaving
what keeps us
from rebirth.

To be baptized,
apart from ruins,

to be revived,
raised in recreation,

letting the letters
rewrite themselves,
until a promise is kept
after the last time
we have wept.