Ode to Fever


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.