Fever

Fever comes like wine, drowning the senses with
akward sleep, and coming to, awakened
by primal urges and needs, sounds feel urgent
and near and you cannot see your hands.
Another contraction, imprisoned in starry womb,
you pound the boundaries with fists, echoing
through night's idiosyncrasies.
The lights sighing, sad to be awake
and voices, your voices, and their abhorrent adoration
so unfamiliar, singing hymns in unintentional rhyme.
Souls, smiling enigmatically, converge,
hands like heavy hammers, out of view.
But the pounding never stops, is that your heart
resounding in your ears, you can't be sure
you're alive anymore, tired, but before you sleep,
visions of edible things and fantasies and more noise
to be hidden in memory's intangible dreams.
They feel so real, but you will never know.