The Mind While Ill
(previously "Scribblings from the Blur of Fever")
There is no hope in this place.
Only pain.
Suffering.
The hole that is my heart longs
for the fair face of freedom.
No one can feel my pain.
No one.
Many times have I wrought the fabrics of time
wishing, hoping, living, wanting...
Only to see that it is all in vain.
All in vain.
Past times haunt me like those of a millennium of days.
But they are all just disillusioned pastimes
for my fragrantly beating heart.
Time flies by unchecked as I squander.
Everything I do becomes nothing.
Nothing, says I.
It is all an illusion,
broken apart like the thousands of miles
before a long trip
Or the aroma of faint salami
floating on the breeze as the hot dogs grill on the fire.
How long, says I?
How long shall my life be that of one who is ill?
One who is sick?
One whose head is pounding into the ceiling...
Or at least that’s what I assume
Through the blurb of fever.
Many more times shall I fail to amuse
to laugh
to smile
to live....
But once more shall I say
that all things are illusions.
Brought on by the fever of life.
When someone brings you a cupcake,
and you find yourself eating it,
even though you are daftly allergic to the said confectionary treat
you will remember these words
that pour so freely from my swollen lips.
You will remember and never forget.
Faintly, I reveal to you
the seams of my burning mind.
For these words,
these precious last words,
they come like pigeons to roost,
or chickens to feed
or angry ducklings to the bread crumbs
spilled out by the frail old hand of wisdom
that is my granny.
How long shall I write this futile poem?
It may be decades before I cease.
But know this, young reader.
I am very ill
with a painful sinus cold
brought to me by my dear loving brother.
I should thank him for ending my youthful spree.
Slice, he does. Slice it down.
In it’s prime, it was destroyed.
Like so many things in life.
Like the cake on a birthday party.
Or the dreams of disco dancing for one who has no rhythm.
Or the raps of foolish men who have nothing better to do than
brag into a microphone with drums pounding in their ears.
It is so strange why someone would want to do that.
But I digress.
Even as my mind wanders for perhaps the final time
I wonder...
Why?
Why is there so much turmoil in my nostrils?
Mucus runs as if they were have a mucus Olympic race.
Down my throat. Out my nose.
Throbbing in the cavities that are my sinuses.
How dreadful.
“You should have ended this poem two stanzas ago”, you may say.
But should I have?
Really?
Or are you enjoying the pain of my sickness?
Are you?
Are you?
Are you?
Perhaps not. Or perhaps so!
For illness is nothing but horror.
Sleepless nights.
Painful extremities.
Medication.
DEATH.
Here I go. Falling...once more, do I fall...
Into the slumber of one who is but a breath away from demise.
So long, says I, for the last time.
Finally...
Finally!
I rest.
