Poet 11586

Why are the living dead?

The ones dead are gone,
just remain their distant memories,
some are yet a fresh storm
others are long forgotten.
But the ones living are no better than dead,
no one cares who the other is,
no one cares what the other said,
no one works for the others wish.
What to say of strangers
even blood relations are strangled,
who cares for the other,
every life is an own triangle.
It's been days since a mother met her daughter,
a father is a son's forgotten friend,
life has got us all slaughtered,
no memories shall remain by the time life ends.