in this world that kills polymaths

The beauty you see in numbers is

that same austere perfection of a sculpture

and the beauty of metaphors is that of paintings

more seductive, transfixing you with colour

You feel like an extinct tongue

is the one your heart was always meant to speak

and in this world that kills polymaths you see

prisoners forgotten by their families

and you teach them to read

no one but you has ever asked for their opinion before

on whether beauty is the opposite of utility

but they think it might be

Many have said they love me

but acted as though they did not know me

like they really hated me

Would I have grown ugly to them then

if they did not understand what loving a mind is like?

I can love yours because you are all I hope to become

whether we had been born in medieval times

if you were a leper, and I was a cloistered nun

I still would have loved your voice

or loved you by the song of your flute

if I lived somewhere that the sound reached me

even if I never saw the face of the musician

you see me like I’m your favourite poem, and still

you may not love me, but even your indifference

is worth more than

what others say is their love for me