Fever

It's funny, I still see the same things
I still know red is not blue
The morning bluebirds still sing

And yet, somehow, it's twisted
While still being old, not new
As if my brain itself has misted

I can still chat and converse
With a throat that's dry
As I pretend the reverse

Its a flaw so clear, yet so weird
That the world through my eyes
Could be so easily smeared


This poem was written indeed with a slight fever. If it makes less sense than usual, blame the fever. If it makes more sense, well, let's just call it sheer chance. I not prepared to take the commitment it requires to have fever be my muse.