They walk the Earth this very moment,
alive to none and yet living to all.
They kill until their humanity is bent,
beyond repair, beyond the crawl.
They have been shredded beyond repent,
by images and actions which cause the fall.
They were alive said the letters they sent,
but now they lay in silence,
awaiting their final call.
i see beauty in it…but its so morbid that i dont want to admit it.
i like you. 
It is a good poem yet so dismal.
I see the dead pacing, reading a Time Magazine in a vinyl chair in a waiting room. The door is marked Death. The dead are waiting to die; to rest. While they wait, they get bored and bitter, so they get their friends and family to wait with them…and then it’s too late for any of them to leave. They too, are the dead waiting for the final call. All are not helpless…for it is merely the Time Magazine itself that keeps them there…it tells the lies that make truth bearable. One sage will know. That’s what I see.
What the hell sparked up the interest in this poem anyway? I wrote this almost a month ago or so and now it gets noticed? LOL! Thanks for the comments regardless! They’re all very much appreciated.
Be it dismal to some, but beautiful to others,
…and yet still, something more to see by few,
…is that what you see Gamer?
I see dead people 