She sits upon a golden cloud
and rides a dream of blame
i knew her when we both were young,
but i can’t recall her name.
Cupped in her hands there sits a dove
that yearns to be set free.
If she were kind she’d let it go,
and then it’d fly to me.
Her name was carved into a tree
that bore the bitter pear
i can’t recall where it once grew
perhaps i shouldn’t care.
Her eyes are flames that light the night
her soul a haunting maze,
her touch as cold as winter’s grasp,
that sets my soul ablaze.