Eamonn Bradley

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What This Pain?

What this pain, and what this void?
And is it made, is it toyed?
Why so desperate for her touch?
Whence this pain, and why so much?

And do you play, or do you plan?
Or is this made, or this made from man?
Or do you watch, and then you laugh?
And why so cruel, on what behalf?

A glint, a smile, a touch, and hope
And then she goes, and how to cope?

And all I see is that it hurts,
And all I wish is that it stop,
And all I ask is that she care,
Yet all I see is that she not be there.

So do you play, or do you plan?
Is this made, or this made for man?
This the furnace, this the pain,
These the only things I gain.

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