Once, there was something he believed in.

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 mystery I shall never know,

Hidden behind layers of despair,

Like a diamond deep under earth and snow,

Behind walls of grief and weary care...