Lovelessness is a hopeful pain, that never goes away.

I don't know if this feeling that I think I feel is real.
I'm not sure if I am just the spokes of a bicycles wheel.
Spinning round and round carrying you from here to there.
Bicycle wheels so pathetically unaware.
That when your legs grow long and you temper short,
I become victimized by feudal courts.
Like when I see the snow,
I feel imprisoned by that damned Jim Crow.
We both read from a common book of prayer,
of which we knew would take us nowhere.
Looking into eyes I never see with my own, is a soft spot.
It's like a screen-write, is it not?
Always being shown in the theater for the absurd.
The view from up so high, is it slightly blurred?
If I am lost, it is only for a little while.
Bridges built though last forever with the stench of thick black bile.
Such a humor I don't know,
A pain I plead to all I know you never undergo.
Hope is similar this way too, a pain so sharp,
not even eased by the playing of an angels harp.
Like when I see the snow,
I think of things not thought since long ago.
When you come and set the bar so high,
not anyone can jump like your legs can jump, whereby
I feel that this lovelessness consumes me.
The familiar smell of a white cinnamon tree.
Upon its lower branches perched a small black bird.
I don't know if you remember, or if you ever heard,

but once I said goodbye, 

and you never did reply.