Here I do revel in pain
with which you cover my life, like a glove.
Your intentions, which have not been plain,
Hold my feelings in the cage of a dove.
Try as I might to unlock the chain,
I simply cannot partake of your love.
Why can I not partake of your love?
Why do I sit, and stare through the pain?
Upon my bare soul, I slip on a glove
to smother the fires that race on the plain.
Fearing the fires of passion, my feelings flee like a dove.
Sadly, too soon, they do reach the end of their chain.
This odd, sick little chain
which does not reciprocate love,
and causes no ending of pain,
hides the solution within its glove
so that nothing shows plain
through the trusting eyes of the dove.
The pristine pure white of the dove,
who mourns at the end of her chain,
is shattered to red by illusions of love.
It is the red of anger in response to pain,
the red of my blood, drenching the glove,
which you wore to keep the evidence from being too plain.
So I sit in my seat on the high-flying plane,
and watch as the turbulence batters the dove
who is hoping my flight will shatter the chain
which holds you out of the reach of my love.
And when we are free of all pain,
we, for eachother, will remove the glove.
For it is that terrible glove
which bars us from walking the plain
and experiencing the peace of that dove
which will someday fly free of the chain
that keeps us from finding our love,
but cannot hold us forever in pain.
Wanting to chain your life to my love,
I wait for the dove to rise from the plain,
and I sit in dark pain, slowly removing my glove.