who finds their purpose in hate
except for the lovestruck lonely
that sit in a dark-harboured fate
wiling away the still, silent hours
they wait, and wait, and wait
not knowing why or for whom
but driven to such a mad state
that they lash out or they lash in
until finally,
they are crushed by the weight
drifting away, eyes closing
knowing that it is too late
to staunch the bleeding
and to stop frienzied feeding
a hunger they cannot satiate