Once, there was a purpose to his life.
When without regret he could sin,
When with joy and sureness he could fight.
He's young, and yet so old.
So aged; not in face,
But in his broken, shattered soul; it's cold,
His heart, and yet with beauty laced.
What is his life now? Who is he?
I ask myself, again and yet again,
He sees me, and yet chooses not to see,
And all I have is a hopeless, sad refrain.
He's a leader, sure and strong,
An innate power, a deep sense of nobility,
He does what's right even if it's wrong,
Oft it borders on mad, insane stupidity.
He's an angel, flawed, yet perfect so,
A tortured soul, lonely in the black,
So high when others try to bring him low,
A golden angel on a bloody rack.
He's a fortress, solid, wholsesome stone, Protects us all with fierecenss of a beast, And yet he's oft so dark, always alone, A father to us, and doesnt mind in the least.
My love is what he also is,
Ambiguous, forbidden, wrong,
A dream of touch and fantasy of a kiss,
Is all I have - and also this sad song.
He is a mysery I shall never know,
Hidden behind layers of despair,
Like a diamond deep under earth and snow,
Behind walls of grief and weary care...