Die Of Beauty Poem by Margaret Alice Second

Concentration on the meaning of words alone
without feeling, emotion symbolised in rhythm
and sound; makes me feel so alone, so alone,
so bored and alone, there's no joy in being

When it shrinks to a game of terms that suit the
theme in front of me, phytosanitary regulation -
colour can't touch me as the vibrant world does
not reflect the silence and isolation inside

Where my inner commentary runs in the dark-
ness behind my eyes where only love & fantasy
can live: the little alien in my head already thinks
he's dead as nothing stirs any feeling within

Sad at the boring uniformity of the days of well-
being not making contact with the soul of any-
thing, an outside life on the surface of my days
and the boredom of the grays, the gray matter

Of the brain which keeps shrinking under modern
medicine stopping synapses from firing, stopping
life in order to enable my body to be a machine -
deep within I'm sad, growing sadder, the words

In my favourite books can't reach into my heart nor
touch my soul, my spirit sits in contemplation of the
religious ideal of supreme calm - and it bores me so
much, yet I can't cry because nothing disturbs the

Slowing waters of my heart, no fairy dancing - no
dream enthralls, nothing captivates and stirs the still
pool of pious calm in the cathedral of my mind, and
what a prison it is, what a place to die of inability

To feel passion within the beauty & harmony inside…