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Lonely ... that cold feeling that creeps up your spine when your not looking, that crawls up when no one else looks. We all get it, our shiver, our cold breathless sensation that holds us captive in our own bodies. That grips our lives and fills us.
I creeps like nothing else and has no true cure, its closest enemy a hope of love that will sweep us away
But no, that loveless hope consumes as well, giving way to passionate unforgiving longing, an even more threatening foe. It kills with unbeaten accuracy, unmatched by any bullet,by any sword, by any hand.
It kills without a thought, without a life.

And then that cold drifts away and away into the abyss of your mind until it has all but turned you into a cold wisp yourself.
And when you wake up you cannot see, you are blind.
Blind to the fact the none will come for you.
Blind to the fact that there may be someone for you.
Blind to the fact that you are blind.

There is no cure...

Yet love resides in this dark, abismal place.
It hovers over your inner demona and darkest fears,
on purest wings it carries itself to the depths of your heart.
Even then, are you sure it is love untainted?
For some angels fly with dirty wings, with sinners thoughts.
Harpies waiting for a strike at you,
but still you wait,
and wait for what?
Do your thoughs really tell you that your one will find you,
that your angel of music resides beside you,
that unless you grasp out now, your chance will slip behind you?
No I say, to the unbinding contract of life.

It guarantees you none, gives you none,
It will let you keep None!

Yet it still rumbles through our streets, looking for an angry fix, a nest in which to nestle.
A phone call away from showing your true colors.
You ...
YOU control it, the anger, contempt, th docile sheepheaded mannerisms in which we are all force to conform to.
Do you really want that?
To be held on a plater for people to watch you as you shiver in the night?
And no shiver from cold, but from yourself.
your feelings.
You are invisible.
no one can see you.
To the you are a body with clothes, a number on a patch, an name on a paper.
You are not flesh and blood, you are an object!
And what do you do about it?

Nothing ...
You let the kind hearted and stubborn and weak and strong and ALL of them walk amongst your pride.
But tell me?
What does your pride hold when the creeping cold of death comes for you?

P.s-"Don't fear the reaper ..."- Blue Oyster Cult

Wont you let me call you my Angel?
dedicated to the one who will be mine ...
if i ever find her ...