Modern Romanticism

Grieving no more
for what lives no more,
as we start to take flight
to see better, to reach
what has returned
to our sight.

It is not the light
we once held onto,
spending precious days
in remote wonderment,
staring at oceans
we thought were lakes.

Nor is it the shadows
that have extended too far
from when we let loose
our tears, from where
we've drawn our scars.

It is a sign of something
that has happened,
before a hand received
one's grasp for a kiss,
or a child received
its mother's embrace.

It is of who we once were,
as this has entered again
to burn clear our wilderness
where we were lost,
where everything we grew
came at such cost.

There needs to be a seed,
to raise something better.

It must be what's better
than what came after.