Standing in the aphotic alley,
I call out for none to hear my cry.
Watching people go about their activities,
They walk through me, unaware of my presence.
Listening to their never ending complaints,
Why can they not hear me?
Their eyes . . . go right through me
My words, are but an echo in their barren minds.
Running farther away from this wretched "life",
The wind begins to gently wipe my face,
Its invisible hands, flowing through my hair.
Yet, I cannot feel the coolness of its delicate touch.
I come to realize I am not one of you.
For water is no longer quenching to my thirst,
Food is no longer filling to my hunger,
Love . . . it is but a far off fantasy.
My body is warm, and my lungs are full,
Yet my heart is numbed, my mind is vacant.
I fear that I am no longer alive, nor am I dead . . .
 
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