A bloody Danube is on fire
below my skin, I burn
and wrap my monkey fingers
around my shoulders.
I dream of numbers in decimal
places reserved for critics
that speak in shivers. Shaking
and nodding my head of metal
I fiercely light my own creations
of dazzling echoes of inspiration
I am a writer
a writer I am, a poet
a poet I am a playwright
Right, No wait, I know I know
I am creative!
I wake.
Oh it’s just a spell.
N.B. I really do have fever and this took a lot of effort to type. But the inspiration stayed with me for a blink of a second longer and I had to get it on a paper of sorts. Enjoy it.