Fever

Poem about the madness of stripped freedom.

Fever

My heels attend to her
As I know the flavor of the dirt
Sustained beneath my feet.
No Bible could have convinced me so
After dropping eighteen years of that Virago’s mistakes
On my tongue; zeppelin-shaped that cheated my soul.
Now I dictate my fingers around my eyes
To create my own looking glass;
I am free from their stares if I grip harder.

Have I gallows so painted in my mind?
No conjecture of light can compel them
To assume a subtle position aside my faculties.
I am afraid to escape;
These austere thoughts that detain me
Only know the dictions
Of a suppressed voice and raped confidence.
What breath could flow under such a tragedy?
Wretched child!  I am repulsed inside.