A Chill Up the Spine

A poem written from a different view.

 I can feel it,

Feel that cold ache,
Growing like a blizzard,
Icy cold and filled with bitterness,

It swirls around me,
Destroying everything in it’s path,
Tearing my soul to pieces,
Tearing my world down into shambles,

Slowly, painfully slow, it moves
Growing, draining the life essence right out of me,
Reducing me into nothing, dead, cold, lonely, broken
Tormented by the very foundation of man kind, the very thing that expresses life,

It grows progressively,
Getting stronger with every bit it swallows,
Smashed, bashed, obliviated, dissipating, consuming,
It will consume until it no longer has anything left to consume,

That’s when I'll finally crack,
Break, shatter, become dismantled,
That’s the day I’ll grow cold just like the aching,
I’ll become the destructive being, and become an angel of gray

Gray, the color of despair,
The colors that once filled my world,
Gone. and they won’t come back to me,
Black will be the color i bare, the color of hate and pain,

The angel of despair,
The angel who sits in the moonlight,
Wondering why this happened to her, why she’s the one to be cast away,
Cast away by her very reason of existence,

Left to ache forever more,
And dull into the icy blizzard that started this whole entire thing,
To become the gray and black winged creature from which no one will escape,
All but one can’t do a thing, but sadly, that “one”, is the ONLY one, who won’t help

Leaving the poor, cold, lonely, destroyed, distraught soul to become the angel of despair.

And what, might you ask, could tare a being apart so much?
What creation could possibly destroy one’s self, world, mind?
Well that’s a simple question to answer for the angel, she knows.
If you really want to know, you can still hear her calling out for it to stop during the blue moon.

“Love,” she calls out with a grief stricken sob.