Epitaph

She is dead after all...

Amidst the crowd’s splenetic clamour,
Amidst the permafrost of starched gazes,
Underneath the stylish coat of body armour,
In between the driblets of flamboyant phrases,
Under the thick layers of stage delusion,
Inside of the rust-proof human skulls,
Within the cage of delicate illusion,
In every reverberation of uneven pulse,
In a test-tube full of flaky bloody mess,
Above the virulence of dying euphoria,
Within the viscera of a cut-open chest,
From the cholera of the primal fear

-A desalinated tear-

The individuality had died…