At the Hands

I know not where my heart has gone. Only that he take it with him on the dawn. Why must we suffer at the hands of our lover? On the wings of doves we once flew. Now no more is the sky ever blue. I have taken my recent medication in the hopes my words will now breathe inspiration. Hand in hand we held each other at first best friends, like sister and brother. A soul can mourn though its mate still lives. It has nothing now and yet still gives and gives. To those who take it's generosity I beg of you to stop or face my animosity. No soul can bare the weight of this albatross hanging from my neck like Christ from his cross. My hangman applies his noose around my throat. My eyes gaze upward seeing the sails of his boat riding by in his ship, so merry is he and the hangman wonders not but finally sets me free. Now no longer can I worry that my anger will beseech me and my fury. Oh, why, please answer, must I suffer at the hands, the beautiful hands, of my lover?