Sometimes it is the dead who pity the living
That their lives are a constant desperate searching yearning craving
Mess of broken thoughts and broken hearts
Self-decapitating persons who cut the life from themselves before the world gets a chance
Sometimes it is the living who pity the dead
That whatever shred of life they are clinging to is unfeeling unknowing unloving
Ashes of life and song and love
Self-manipulating souls who burn the life from themselves after the world had its chance
