Lich

Liches are reconstituted flesh
Made living by unnecessary power.
The undead ligaments obscurely mesh
And move, and creak, but no emotions flower
Within the cold, dead heart. It's ever so,
Except for hate: hate of the living hearts
That flow with blood and beat with love - and grow.
They feel the touch of their partly-knit parts
And wonder why they cannot be that way.
It's envy, purely, that excites this pain
And brings them to their evil, and to slay
All around them - they are half insane
With wishing to be human, and alive.
Only from unlife does hate derive.