The skeletons of the sick decay, bodies dead from living a wretched life,
Skin broken, hair faint and dry, threading bare on a dichotomous continuum.
Watch them as they rattle and shuffle by day, wheeze and leak by night,
Only somehow forgetting to die, as if unaware of something following them.
Degrees of regret catch them as they fade, there beyond out of ageless sight,
Brushed by the tails of hopes that fly, dashed intrigues of salvation sovereign.
Nobody knows where they stay, even though everybody sees their strife,
So desperate there are no more tears to cry, pities or shames worth bothering.
Stone eyed they glare back with nothing to say, muted by their plight,
Without the killer instinct to even try, their lingering insufferable and ominous.
Caricatures in a forcibly makeshift play, in an otherwise perfect world of delight,
Like shadows cast out by the sky, their dying just doesn’t seem part of this.