In a space, void of light,
a mesh of emotions gnaw at us;
we drop, struggling to hold on
to what we know is already gone.
Yet, we remain,
ceasing to complain
for promises keep us afloat
those we spoke, those we wrote.
Here, they are dead,
our minds and souls stay unwed;
but all is well in the other dimension.
This is but a temporary station.
Image: Both, Jan. 1645. A Rocky Landscape with Peasants.