The Fever

He is ill, sick with fever
Thermometer held
Beneath his tongue
He holds a damp cloth to his
Forehead
Hoping it will clear his mind

To cool his head, he swallows pills
Expecting to drown
In their silence
He hopes for a dreamless sleep
Free of nightmarish
Apparitions

His sleep is far from empty
Fevered dreams echo in
His scull
Broken phrases, dislocated hands
Imprints of actions
Tricks and charms and lies

He wakes with a shudder
Awake is the same as asleep
The same hallucinations
Fill his sight
The fever has not been
Cured





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