Modern Romanticism

The less we know
is the less we hold onto,
replicating the darkness
in both our hearts,
laid out onto
a sea of glass.

Who restarts that rhythm
we've come to ignore?
We didn't come to
these shadows,
those black curtains.
We just knew what
we would crumble into.

We knew what we were
always shedding a tear for,
always hoping for,
while already buried
beneath the mire.

Would we have
ever gone higher,
hearing the angels
who leave their feathers,
those that stayed
from burning wings?

A knot is what
we came to worship,
dividing our space
into a path,
into a trace,
bleeding for a world
we could not admit
never had light.