Modern Romanticism

There's a line to draw
on bottomless quicksand,
to remind ourselves
of a space to retreat,
when pain cannot
bring us lower.

We must cross it,
seeking shelter under
a different setting
where sunlight
has erupted between
thunderclouds.

We must not sink,
when we always think
we can return
the light to a void,
life back to all
we couldn't avoid.

Escaping from seconds
we've been turning
into those infinite infinities,
when we numbed
our twisted fingers
to the cold of emptiness.

Trusting in one other
segment of growth,
birthed in the garden
where a signal
draws itself close.

A signal that
never seeks to revive
what wasn't ever
meant to survive.