A keeper of souls, devoid of my own,
One starved of warmth and ravenous for it,
I watch, from the clutches of despair,
From depth of shadow, that world above,
The land of the living, which mocks me so,
Taunting with a vision of shimmering light,
Of loveliness so fair that I might seek to pluck it,
As a fruit just ripe from its motherly tree,
Though no deathly claim have I to it,
Naught but my own desire and need,
My craving to consume the air she breathes.

I wait.