Within this hollow world,
Tell me who am I to envy,
Those alive but never lived,
Or those entrapped by what they feel and see?
Seconds,hours,years,
They mean nothing to them,
Burnt but never scorched,
Such were the descendants of man.
Going about their lives,
Grabbing at senseless things,
Only to pleasure pride and greed,
Then blaming others for the misfortune they bring.
Words so sharp they tear and slash,
Inflicting pain they could not feel,
Building towers to stand upon,
With the blood of others, they signed their deals.
To not understand pain,
Nor suffering so cruel,
Should they be the ones I envy?
Or should i pity those poor fools?
As for the caged and forlorn,
Dying each day from sorrow and grief,
Speak to me the voices that taunt them,
When oblivion brings them sleep.
Speaking every language,
They translate the essence of beauty,
Into both canvas and stone,
That survive even centuries.
Genius and madness meet at last,
Yet struck by suffering as payment,
Paralyzed from enduring wounds that never heal,
Wishing for gifts only death could send.
Inflicting wounds that leak numbness,
Tired of every spoken lie,
But never daring to cut that last thread,
Afraid to live, afraid to die.
So sing me to sleep,
Away from this inversed world,
Leave me to rest beneath the soil,
Never having to watch ugly truths unfurl.
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