Loneliness is cliche

A simulated reality,

Shards of glass for stars,

Cement footpaths,

Crowded with phantoms,

Ghosts born of dead dreams,

Cry! Cry for your own doom!

Cry for the lonely!

Cry for the hungry!

Cry for Him above the clouds,

Reduced to a fragment of human imagination,

A heartless world,

With the extreme fanatics,

And the non-believers,

Simplicity is made to stand in the corner.

The act of existing,

Taught through textbooks and blackboards,

With the handprints on her cheeks,

And vomit splattered on the streets,

She stands there,

Alone,

Like McCartney's Eleanor Rigby,

Like some fantasy lead whose home burnt down,

The surviving characters of Hugo's novels,

In their loneliness they can see the world,

Can feel it for what it is,

What it has become.

The crowded streets are empty,

With elbows shoving in her rib cage 

as people walk by,

No one stops,

Running to their institutions,

To their fake Gods and wooden desks,

While her heart threatens to claw out of her body,

Skin going numb,

Brain dead,

Goosebumps on her flesh,

She stands there with gut wrenching sorrow on her forehead,

Breathing shallow and fast,

She only watched as mankind ripped itself apart.