Confused.

Do people care?
Do people cry?
Underneath the ground is where he will lie.
Trapped in darkness forever.

"We couldn't stop him"
They all said
"It's not our fault that he is dead."
Their words seep black, cold truth.
It is not his blood that is on their hands.

They move on.
Like they don't seem to notice, he is gone.
They're eyes clear and bright.
While I sit in my room, crying into the night.

But do they care?
But do they cry?
No, they sit on their prickly throne of lies
Lies that they've told themselves.
Lies that try to make the sadness disappear.