EMBEFUSE

After all things have burned,
a single line remains—
thin as breath,
bright as a wound,
leading somewhere
that might still be tomorrow.

Their stage is not a place of rescue,
but an unfinished rite
held at the edge of collapse.

Almost falling,
but not yet.
Almost extinguished,
but still lit.
Almost letting go,
then reaching again
through smoke and trembling hands.

They do not sing to escape the dark.
They stand inside it,
listening for the faintest spark—
the ember beneath the ash,
the fuse that has not died,
the fragile signal
that says:

even here,
something is still burning.