On The Dying Of Amy Winehouse Poem by Daniel Thomas Moran

Among us, there are
those who will not make it.

Those who will
contend with mortality,
Wrapping themselves
around it,
Unable to let go.

We watch them
as prey through a sight.
Cheer them
as the mob below,
Looks up at
the man on the ledge.

We are unsure
what to hope for.

We stand by
as they put
the pain into
their limbs and lungs.

We take what we desire.
They understand how
want has no confines.

But too soon
the bed is emptied of lovers.
And we are left
with the despair that knows,

What we do to one another,
is still less, than that
which we do to ourselves.