They take their life from no life
Alive only in contrast to what does not move...
Do they envy, those half-alive?
Do they hate what they have become?
Contempt- for the petty things that they have chosen
To fill the empty hours, to warm their cold hearts-
Burns in them too, like the sun never could,
But it cannot quicken them, the forever still.
© Amy Dotta, 2000