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.
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