A strange complaint is that of being alive

A strange complaint is that of being alive,
Of breathing, eating, sleeping,taking walks
When our loved one has gone, yet we survive

When will the will to live once more revive?
And depressive darkness stop its winding stalks
A strange complaint, we hate to be alive.

Of touch and affect we are long deprived.
With empty bottles, rattle  silver forks
When our loved one has gone, yet we survive

What loving kindness makes us wish to strive?
What black interior hole cannot be corked?
A strange complaint is that of being alive.

Should we not be thankful for our lives?
This is hopeless if it is just thought
When our loved one has gone, yet we survive

Is a life of solitude too fraught?
Are there no companions in talk?
A strange complaint is that of being alive,
When our loved one has gone,  shall we survive?