Passing Chill

Wondering half way aloud
His voice muted by reticence
A gentle whisper in a crowd
But rock on a cheap radio
Drowns his efforts to be heard
Could he once more be known
Or is he a nonentity
Not seen, not heard,, barely felt
Just another passing chill

Dejected, he further fades
But he still wavers down the street
Still watches as women stride
Radiant beneath street light
He would touch them if he could
But they would feel a brush of ice
Ignorant of his desire
Undergoing fear of the unknown
But not the longing of the dead.