You can see it in their faces,
all the dark and gloomy pasts.
It fills their souls and pours
through their eyes.

It comes out their mouths
like a viscous foam;
the words of disgust and rumors,
contaminating those they that they speak of.

The death that's on their fingertips
bleeds off slowly,
but grasps at every last piece of happiness we have
and tears it to the floor.

When we become like them, then they're content.
Hurtful, spiteful creatures of the night,
roaming for one last feast of an innocent person.
That's all we want: to bring them down to our level.

Our level of depression and self pity;
one that begs to be fed, but not cared for.
Its a spirit of tattered countenance,
and little preservation.

After destroying all we see, we'll fade, fast and softly,
like that of flies crowding 'round a dead body.
Our purpose has been filled, so we'll drop dead.
Lying dormant until there's another corpse to take.