Empty shells stumble around in darkness
Searching for the substance of their former selves.
The hollowness of their souls ring out in endless echoes.
Like fallen leaves in autumn they go whither the wind blows.
As time passes they become walking carcasses
Who see and speak, and listlessly weep.
Under the openness of the ether, the feral children curiously peep.
Lethargically they walk
and recite their mantra:
We search for the light of resurrection in all directions
Hoping for our day of release and the stillness of peace.
We dwell in darkness and are tormented with emptiness.
The residue of substance is not enough to sustain us;
The hunger of our craving is not of the stomach, but of the soul.
Once young and beautiful faces are now withered and old.
With high hopes and sincere hearts we march, yet we fall apart.
The fulfillment of their purpose they constantly dream;
To be filled with healing waters of a peaceful stream.
Still, they roam;
Weather beaten ships on eternal seas without a home.
I will record their misery and write a poem
In hopes they find that sustaining substance that fills the soul.
In the millions they gather with stories untold;
Inside they seek warmth, for on the outside it’s cold.