The Cross

 
I die every day, not in body but in soul.
Every dawn brings a new absence,
a void that expands,
swallowing the colors of the world.

I walk through streets empty of emotions,
where faces are masks
and the smiles are empty reflections.
The human touch has been lost
replaced with mechanical gestures.

The heart beats, but does not feel,
eyes see, but do not see.
The mind screams in silence
in an endless search for meaning
in a barren land of non-empathy.

I die every day, being reborn in fragments,
trying to put the pieces together
of an existence that falls apart
in a world without sensitivity.

I die every day
not a physical death
but a slow death
and an erosion of the soul.

Every dawn brings a new battle,
a confrontation with apathy,
where the colors of the world fade.
The sounds remain distant echoes.

I live in a world of shadows
where sensitivity is a luxury
and friendliness, a rarity.
Faces around me are masks
hiding deep voids.

I feel the loneliness in the crowds,
an isolation that does not break,
even with words and gestures.
True connection is a myth,
a mirage in the desert of existence.

I die every day,
but I keep walking,
dead walker,
hoping to find a fragment of light,
a spark of humanity
in a world that has forgotten how to feel.