The Fever

 

                                                                        The fever rages on

                                                                                    into the morning,

                                                                        Pulling at her eyes,

                                                                                    tugging at the edges of her mind,

                                                                        Burning at the corner of her skull.

                                                                                    Sanity doesn’t exist for her –

                                                                        Life becomes a blur of superego

                                                                                    “thou shalt (not)s” and a primal

                                                                        Empty-craving for a cup of cold

                                                                                    sleep.  The yawning below her,

                                                                        a crevice in the rocks of time and space,

                                                                                    Whispers her name in moaning winds

                                                                        of chance or fate in this dark cavern

                                                                                    she calls “home.”

                                                                        Life begins to exist, and time

                                                                                    to proceed in a normal fashion

                                                                        When she breathes out her answer

                                                                                    In tones made lucid and raging

                                                                        By the shattering, feverish burn in her brain.

                                                                                    The darkness swallows her and she

                                                                        Smiles and speaks with Edgar Allan Poe:

                                                                                    “Thank Heaven!  The crisis, the danger

                                                                        Is past!  The lingering illness is conquered at last;

                                                                                    The fever called ‘Living’ is over…

                                                                                                            at last.”

 

 

 

“The Fever Called Living” belongs to Edgar Allan Poe.  I’m not trying to steal.