They blink, they talk and they can even live their lives without most people noticing,

But they are dead; their soul was destroyed long ago.

They are a poisoned, walking, breathing corpse.

There is no hope.

Their eyes are deep, dark, never-ending pools of choking despair.

Murky windows to a heart that is gripped by an icy fist of hatred.

It still beats, but only to traffic a corrupted blood around a desolate body.

There is no hope.

The skin is wrong; the colour is that of a fleshed-out ghost, the touch synthetic.

They have lost all ability to share warmth; a single caress chilling a spine.

Their core is frigid, only saved from inevitable decay by deep-freeze.

There is no hope.

The darkness swirls through the mind as a demon of chaos.

It poisons words and taints the views, dulling to monochrome.

No joy can be drawn from that which is devoid of life’s palette.

There is no hope.

Nightmarish creatures of hate, anger, deception and mistrust abound.

They swirl in the belly of the fallen like maggots in an over-ripe cadaver.

They spew from the gullet a dark honey of false repent.

 There is no hope.

The loved of the fallen refuse to see the truth; they prey for miracles.

They linger in hopes of a mere glimpse of past’s comforting apparition.

Yet they know, that which they love is gone, replaced by the Devil’s puppet.