I speak for the dead,
I speak for the hearts that have stopped beating,
I speak for those who continue to walk the streets with their due dates etched into the pavement.
You can walk among the living and see death in their eyes,
Lungs still exhaling,
Blood still pumping.
Those who walk with broken souls clatter inside empty bodies,
Like sharp glass clanking together in spacious bags,
Cutting up walls covered in personas,
Bleeding.
A never-ending mindless routine,
Stumbling into shapes,
Shapes made by superior shapes,
Never formulating into these people I once knew.