Voices of Those Left Cold

Standing alone,
I hear their voices,
Whispering sweet-nothings to me as I go about.

I wonder what, or who, and why,
But the answer does not find its way into my ears,
But rather into my eyes.

I peer through the broken glass of daylight,
I see the thousands of brown pillars,
Their bows illuminated green as if envious.

Perhaps of those who are higher,
Stealing their warmth, their growth.

They will never know the feeling,
They will never see the entire, magnificent picture.

These glories will never find their eyes, their hearts,
And they will never feel the warmth, the growth.

They reach up like a child wishing only to be held,
But nobody cares for them,
We'd all wish them death,
The coldness becoming embraced.

Those below have become black at their core,
Logic fails them, but so too does emotion,
And they are hollow,
No longer alive, but never able to die.

These beings who see only what is evil and nothing that is good,
They prance about their day in solitude.

They go unheard,
Unspoken to,
And they treat each other no different...