The Un-Wasted Youth and Eternal Bat Out of Hell

It was a hot summer night, and a storm was rolling in. Bitter salt air cascaded against dark blue waves. Footprints of memories disappeared into nothing, a ghost into the waiting darkness. The wasted youth were the dreams thrown away, and life was a lemon with no refunds back. A call to the wild rang out, and she gave her throat to the hungry wolf. And her love bled across the sweet bed of roses, and the night ignited into flames. He was coming. Like a mad biker chasing legacy, intensity bursting into glory, he was rising, and we were waiting, ready to jump from the frying pan and into the fire.

"Who is this chick," he growled. Heaven could wait, but Hell burns forever. His Rock n' Roll dreams, his emerald city were now ashes to his ordinary life, and he was revved up, ready to go. But the Un-Wasted Youth were bent on their Mission. No more would the dreamers remain boys lost or girls golden. Generations marched into this world, changing it forever, and never would they go quietly into that good night. But their absence steals across time, and we mourn the death of music, waiting for another star to rise. And the chords to her heart and soul strike us deep, and we fall into captivation to the voice of an angel. One shot of passion, two glasses of rhythm, and the Tequila now does the talking. And Lisa Bouchelle's music carries us into the bleu room with a red vase, but Heaven can still wait for Hell is forever.

Thunder screamed across the stage. The guitar howled, bleeding a thousand tears. Fingers of flames touched the night. The wait was over. He had arrived, the eternal bat out of hell, Meatloaf dripping with the true essence of music, and his voice rang out. And the sea of small, silver screens shuddered. Footsteps stormed the pavement. Hands seized the air, and we were held spellbound. No technical difficulties would break this trance, and we were his. And we wanted everything louder than anything else, our Rock and Roll Dreams lived through him.

Hours melted into eternity. Tears of heaven were savored across salty lips. Fingers and feet twitched to the beat, and voices raised into the depth that called to them. Hearts soared, and passion boiled. He was maestro to the strings that played across the fabric of our being, and his dreams would never quit. And slowly he descended back into hell, leaving us in paradise but not by the dashboard light.