Hollow Bodies

I see them.
I watch them dying
deathless deaths,
voluntarily invoked.

Hollow bodies marching city streets,
purchasing escape routes in exchange for chances.
As if the well would not run dry.
Eventually,
dry as brittle bones
is what the well inevitably becomes.

Was it misplaced dreams that ripped you at the seams?
Was it darkness that took place behind the scenes?
Was it the only door being seen,
through blurred, and distorted vision?

Hollow bodies march along.
In tune, they sing a cryptic song.
Mindless vessels puppeteered,
trails of empty bottles,
pipes, and needles.

Truth is, we get one well,
so I pray they will get well.
I hope for echoes of self
to break through hollowed shells,
cries are heard,
and help is near with haste.  

Hollow bodies
tell no one they're lost.
Sweet escapes
come at much too high a cost.
What's taken for granted
CAN* be lost,
I pray they find their way.