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...