The Fever

The world’s heat is fleeing
Breaths skipped; scenes blurred
Against time, the seekers soar
To where it may goes, to when it may ends

Creeping about like flocks of wingless raven
Up, and down, sway, and away to the freezing shores
Spotting no traces at all
Between the weep and the deep

Only cold merciless salts,
To flavour the boiling of the self

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