Paradoxial Lonesome

O', the nefarious nature of lonesome,
How it tortures us so,
Prodding and poking,
Mustering the memories of those left lone…
The torrid nature of lonesome,
The heat of hate,
And such the perpetual burning,
The iniquity of the flames of fate.

I can't help but ponder,
Why we so torture ourselves,
We always must hide and simply wander,
'Tis this which seems most perplexing,
Constantly vexing…
O', how I must so pointlessly ponder,
Why we must so bringeth our own ominous thunder.
The crashing boom of the constant silence to loom…

I've left you, my dove,
Left you and gone,
Left ev'ry small thing,
And still the greatest-love.

Why hath He borne upon me such a fate,
Why must I be the one to undertake the angriest hate?
Oft is it this I wonder,
Why I've so been dragged under.
I seem to have gone upon my own free will,
Though for what occasion?  
There now exists the greatest gap in my heart to fill…

I pray not soon for thee, for there is only one for me,
And I wish her the loveliest of life,
I pray only that she is happy,
Only that there exists for her none such strife.
Alas, it is a paradox I've made myself,
I see it plain as day,
That as my pain is harsh,
Her expense is one just as great to pay.