Dead
What is the purpose
Of wandering, soulless?
With no ambition or sight,
No music to dance to?
A cruel twist of fate
An endless struggle
For what? For whom?
What reason is there
To shed blood,
To shed tears of anguish,
Of deafening agony?
Who is this person
Sitting beside me,
My reflection?
It mimics and taunts,
As it leaps and twirls-
So grotesque.
So distorted.
Breathe, it demands,
In and out.
In and out.
Craving, needing.
In, out, in, out.
Who am I to defy
All that life has given?
Who are we to question
The gift of thought?
But why?
Why do I wander, seeing
Nothing, and everything
Always, always searching
Hoping.
That this ticking-
Silent, infinite-
Torture.
Will finally end.
It must. Mustn't it?
Everything has an end,
Yet.
Here I am, endless.
Time, eternal.
Pain, forever.
Does the soul know the anger
that it causes in my heart?
Does the heart know the hatred
It stirs within my mind?
Does the mind know how futile
It is to persist?
A wise man once said,
As he reflected
Upon his ghostly state,
How, with each passing day,
It only became clearer
To this man, this corpse
That he, all,
"We are the dead."
Yes, we are.
Aren't we?