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Fever Dreams

Morguefile by Hotblack

the despair that grows in me
does so quietly
buckling down,
nailing in nails,
wrapped in a kind of permanence
that I hate to think about.

it is seldom seen,
to send up shoots
in the panicked dreams
of my 3 a.m. self,
whose subconscious seems
best resigned to such things.

it rises,
bilious, seeking the night
etching window's glass
which only seeks the night.

I lay my cheek against its coolness
and wonder whether
it has the peace I seek.

it is only a moment.

copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt 2020

Posted for Poets and Storytellers

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