Walking predestined steps of dissapointment,
But we are blind to the end.
Our shadows hold each other in the dark,
Kissing and craving what we try to build.
Like a broken memory incomplete in recall,
We cannot create or feel the echo we remember.

To the very core of ourselves a decaying blackness,
Consuming every light or bloom.
We watch our brothers and sisters flourish and Love.
We feel the emptiness ten fold,
And crave to witness and consume the warmth in their eyes.
We feel it but cannot own it wield it but cannot bind it.

Love does not bloom in our hearts,
And is not gifted to our souls,
A higher might created us with outward beauty,
But short changed us on substance and capacity.
Every time we attempt to create love,
It burns in our hands as if offended by our very hearts.