Suicide

Lost souls wander on darkened corners
Zombie-like, their hands and arms dangle before them
The carrot for the wretched is the endlessness of existence
They are those who curse infinity
And crave the comfort of death
Where there is respite from the physical
I have often wandered why the hopeless do not actively seek this comfort
Taking the necessary steps needed to go from present to the grave
Hope, even in its absence, seems to drive us all
And, by god, we shall not make the grim reaper's job easier
Or is it because, when enmeshed in failure, the fear is that succeed will elude us even in an act of suicide?
I am not suicidal but am often curious of those who actively are
This is not a poem
But rather the release of random thought
Or is that poetry in itself?