Again I attempt patience
Until home again we go
The unknown is all that awaits us
in Loretto other than snow

What need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone?
For men were born to pray and save:
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Yet they were of a different kind,
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman's rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain,
You'd cry, 'Some woman's yellow hair
Has maddened every mother's son':
They weighed so lightly what they gave.
But let them be, they're dead and gone,
They're with O'Leary in the grave.

Can you question the hand you're given
and try to comprehend the plans of Fate?
Is it possible the timing could be off,
that this time what Should have been was running late?

As the two paths cross and collide,
we find our hearts hanging on by a thread.
We evaluate every moment, every touch, every breath,
all the words spoken and those left unsaid.

This happenstance discovery of perfection
leaving one too many gaping holes;
a somber solitude must now occupy the night,
as the necessary healing sets in the depths of our souls.

Its been a few months since you set me free,
but I'll be right here, where I need to be,
right where you need me,
I know it's not the same,
and it even hurts a little when someone says your name,
and even though you pushed me away and set me aside,
my arms will be open wide,
you're seldom human, you're more cigarette,
you fill my lungs, making it hard to breathe, but somehow you fill me with no regret,
you worsen my condition,
surround me with addiction,
but regardless of all that,
I know I'll find you one night standing on my door mat,
because for you; bad things often seem to arise,
but you know that I won't let them be your demise,
and until then I'll remain out of your sight,
and until then I'll be just alright.

Tracing mindlessly along the lines of my hand,
     My pulse races at the electricity of his touch.
Pulling me closer to lock his eyes into mine,
     It must be a sin to let my heart feel this much.
Laughing softly at our misguided, late-night words
     with no plans of waking up until noon.
Ending abruptly, at one long, warm embrace,
     **** my alarm for going off a moment too soon.

I can't get your scent out of my head,
I can't forget how I felt at home in your arms
And how you would lend me your warmth.
Our drunken conversations replay in my head,
Stuck in repeat.
What did I do wrong?
I don't want to be the first one to cave,
To come crawling back,
But I miss you.
Please come back to me.