House of Numbers

       I am the poet misplaced
In a house of science and modern ideas
Coated in synthetic glow and echoing with gears
All is metal and cold as ice
    The ink is frozen in my pen.

         The scientists are hunting
There is no cure for my illness, most common
No fluid, nor capsule that can sap me
The music of words remains
       For I am watched too close to write

        My days as a conductor are over
Fingers brittle from the chill of my prison- smiling
Spider web cracks decorate the walls
Of the house of science and modern ideas
        My days as an architect are just beginning.