There is naught but cold
as the days grow old
and our faces become lined
but our expressions stay bold;

there is nothing but hate
where once love did accumulate
and our hearts, now stone,
are weary as we mutilate;

there is not but death
in the place of mirth,
where life once thrived:
we dare not take a breath.

And now maligned,
alone,
we live contrived.