Comfortable.

Comfortable.

You hold me here, comfortable, contented.
On Ice, as cold as death itself I'm tired and resented.
Preserve me, so I show no more decay.
Sterile, stiffed, locked in time, free yet locked away.

Left without a future, abandoned by a friend.
How long will it be like this?
How long till the end?

All you want to do is keep me comfortable.
Suspended in some artificial world.
Ambling, untangling, memories, lost in time, my life I'm trying to unfurl.

And you do your very best to make me comfortable,
Not alive, nor happy or adored.
Just existing, not resisting  or acknowledged, lonely, lost enraged and bored.

Drowning in my dread and isolation.
Death is my ambition, my wish, my destination.
Death becomes my number one desire.
Choking on the apathy or burning in the fire.

And they're happy when you tell them that I'm comfortable.
Side lined, overlooked and at my station.
It's as to be expected, they'll console themselves.
Avoiding awkward words or situations.

Comfortable becomes our one ambition.
Comfortable our number one desire.
Happiness by your interpretation.
Then quietly I smoulder in the fire.

Comfortable is all you have to offer me.
Comfortable is all that we now share.
Comfortable won't tell me why I lost you.
Comfortable  won't tell me if you care.