A Cold Demise

 It is not the cold stare of ice-blue death
 Nor dagger-like jaws that salivate at my scent
 Nor even the snarl of the disenchanted
 That worries that lost and lonely soul
 But, instead, the crying of the unsen others
 They who wait for the command to feast
 They who run wild, yet still must obey
 I pity them in my subzero demise
 In truth, we are so very much alike