Silent Dying

Twitching, darting eyes;

frowning, then raising eyebrows

to hurry time, he sits,
thinks first of all the blood

racing around veins, arteries,
then the guts and muscles
contained so carefully by his frame – 
counting heartbeats, pulse, breaths,

wondering the Wonders of Nature,

until even these forced thoughts

die deaths – silent dying.

It is the tragedy of screaming boredom grips him most.
No solace in almost knowing you’re not alone;

I guess that’s why we go mad inside.

Supine in bed, he runs

a fiction of the day,

smiling now – silent death.