By gloved hands
The touch is fine tuned
By those who cannot feel
Only in times of raining despair
Do they realise, but they turn away
From you and I.
And then it rains, yet unfair
From their skies falls gilded prizes
But beneath the unscratched surface
Misery lays in an infinite number of disguises.
And when the time comes
To take off those gloves.
When cold metal's lost it's flair
When the ice has lost it's glare
You can't see your hands.
No-one can hold them
Touch them.
It's as if they're not there.
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