her body crusted in fragile fabric,
against the breeze that intentionally sinned upon
the folds and curves of her tangled skin.
my English soul in damn for a kiss
from my Irish darling.

like roses and thorns of a holy wrench,
we lay over my last hold of you
our breaths going dumb in the silence
of our fated seconds.
we tear still, in the midst of gentle lust,
pray shall we ever atone for all of it alone –
fearing the woulds that might hurt
your feminine farces.

we held uncertain, unknown
and damned to the loves of our walk.
you meant the lilies of my mud:
we be the disgust in your scent.
we learned the way of love,
how it arrives of no notice,
and leaves before the coming is seen.
thus, we lay in the sameness again,
with her thought rotting with our English muscles,
hollow bones and dread tears.

her Irish eyes atone for the veils of my brotherhood,
we pierce blood to love.