Modern Romanticism

While everyone watches,
as others desert,
we are fewest
to see what remains
inside two pairs of broken hands,
sifting through remains
of burned photographs.

Living in each other’s breath,
living for the moment
when we will be buried alive,
mistaken for further death,

though we are eternal
in the pain that keeps eyes open,

aware of our truth
with our noose coming loose.

I know to know
if we will continue to follow
this long road, like outstretched arms,
when clouds begin to gather,
when breath becomes smothered
in distant, grey scenery.

I want to know
how we can keep up
in times we lift the other up,
against flashing thunder,
against what threatens us
with sorrowful rain,

Would we sense glory
on that next kiss,
within the dark,
the rain?