There is a death, an apathy profoundAs that of those who in the churchyard lie,Although the sepulchres be above ground,Where rot these moral morts unconsciously.They rot with vermin, dead as clod of clay,And greedy sycophants, heart-eating worms,Forever gnaw on them, forever theyTo all that crawl or creep or coil or preyRemain insensible; not fear informsTheir cold residuum,--if a man may callThat thing a residue, which never knewOne throb for others; wrapt in cerements all,In shrouds of selfishness, they cannot rueThe loathsomeness of their estate and hue.
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The Selfish
written byGalt John
© Galt John
