The living are dead
Moving day in, day out
But sadly unmoved.
The little things are shrouded
By meaningless pursuits.
And the words they utter, sans passion.
They sleep, but are without rest
Their tomorrows, driven by a superficial mind
Their hearts, as keyholes
In dire need of the right key
To unlock the door,
The door to a life with purpose.
But see, the living are dead,
The wait for revival, indefinite.