He tattooed a compass across his chest,
but your initials spilled out skillfully
instead of North and South (N;S);
Proportionate in every aspect,
rounding the circumference of his life in the
Perfect dimension that only he alone
recognises.

He says you lead him, you
refuted.
You say you always
mislead.

But what can you do
against the vulnerable him,
when he says he’s a willing sheep
as long as you are the shepherd
and the Wales is but you both,
that he could graze on the pulps of love
                     even when
the grasses dry.


He says that’s how he’ll survive,
and his ideals live,
*even when romance dies.