The Cold
The cold reaches for me and embraces my arm,
Stroking my tears and lying there calm.
The cold holds the wand, I'm under it's spell,
And it's the reason that I'm feeling unwell.
How old must I feel?
How much blood must I spill?
Before I feel sane?
Must I always complain?
Now we sit here with our dreams and nothing more,
Our hands rough and our minds bored.
When I'm alone, my soul does weep,
It shoots me straight into the middle of next week.
How old must I feel?
How much blood must I spill?
Before I feel sane?
Must I always complain?
And I always complain.