Intrigue Poem by Margaret Alice Second

Not a single fictitious character in my head,
the inner monologue is dead - not a single
feeling stirring, no emotion except the dis-
comfort of boredom being uncomfortable
in my chair, in exasperation I wonder what
part of my wild diet is turning on me today

Why did my pre-physical spirit decide to have
allergies and pay for each sin of dietary indis-
cretion with physical and mental discomfort -
was this some idiotic pre-birth plan to keep my
life within narrow confines as happy all-knowing
spiritualists claim, wrongly, as far as I can see

I only turn into a self-pitying grumbler and that
can't be good, just waiting for time to pass to
eat again - if only my inner group of characters
would present a story again - life is so boring
without an intrigue in the mind!