Wakey Wakey - 2011/10/11

Sweat beads manifest obscuring the fever in my veins. The party is just getting started while lethargy hobbles my brains.  Spiraling lights percolate blurry darkening visions. Others try to rouse me with targeted verbal incisions. Their voices are muted originating from another world.  They cannot nor shall they interrupt the insanity I have unfurled.

My time in a sick mind races toward an untimely end. The residents have lined up only too willing to defend. Between their pulling and your tugging, I return to reality ready for my mugging. Yet all I want to do is turn around and go back. Damn you real world and your non stop attack.

Later after time resumes its typical advance, do I dare to take a moment and steal a precious glance. While the fantastic splendor is all but decimated, I find the fever that spawned it has now abated. No words or comments are required for me to understand. This is the work of life and its ever miserable hand.

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