Hollow Hearts Beat Too

Depression stains with shades of blue and clings to crimson beats of life. The mournful scarlet sanctum bleeds, cut down by maddening mortal strife. The world's rejection slowly seeps into that loving sanctum's core, corroding human elements and everything it once adored. What's left is but a lonely shell devoid of thought and warmth alike; such vessels have been long disdained and left impaled on distant spikes. To disregard another life because of such vacuity is, in itself, unethical, and it will never cease to be. Is not there breath in vacancy? Do not plants grow on rootless logs, or has such greenery been banned to live forever lost in fog? Is not there faith in emptiness? Does not hope lie in wishing wells, or are the pleas of passersby ignored and left alone to dwell? Is not there tune in spacious voids? Does not sound ring from empty drums, or is such resonance reduced to lowly insubstantial hums? The world continues pivoting, as if its people never knew the pain they caused through ignorance: ...forsaken hollow hearts beat too.