A smile here, a laugh there
A grin ever so wide and bare
Yet all the eyes do is stare
As emptiness it doth bear
Their smiles never genuine
Their laughter; rare and apocryphal
A wisp of their former selves
They speak with no inflection
And despise their own reflection
For they are, in mind, tormented by Hell's angels
Buried under the weight of their past
They walk within the world yet outside it
Traipsing on the street as though alone
For, in mind, they truly are
Bitter as their lives prevaricate
Every once in a while to the world
Display they a semblance of life
But in truth their lives at conceited
They feel nothing; void of jocund, consternation
They walk among us yet not with us
They live yet are not alive
They are decried wrongly
But they are ever nonchalant
Moon after moon by nothing they're led
They are them, they that walk dead