Rings of Smoke

These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis.

to fever

Posted on | October 23, 2007 | Comments Off

recline on my bed,and let my forehead burn,
stroke my forehead,and make my eyes sting and water,
fever,burn my body.fever,talk to me!
take my hand,and enter my brain,
and show me sweet hallucinations,
bizarre dreams that i will not remember,
kaleidoscopes peeking on tortured images,
fever,take my hand,and enter my head.
i wish you would take some time,
stay with me;i love this feeling,
of gentle tiredness,this hollow loss of energy,,
the lack of hunger or desire,
i like-
the hot blood which raises no passions,
i wish you would take some time.
and so,fever,take my hand and lie with me;
my sheet is cold,caress my brow,
i havent slept for a long long time,
tired,desolate,growing lonely and irate,
i yearn your company,fever,hold my hand,
make me sleep;and erase all dreams.

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