By Henry Smith
Fever ridden to the day I die, underneath a pale light, yellow on the fringes. Back to nothing again; loneliness kills, swallows, absorbs. Starving for more, craving more, lying more, dying more, dreaming more, more, more, more. Lying in bed looking up at the cracks in the ceiling, following the spinning fan blades with your eyes, and then the next day arrives, and the next day after that, and somehow you fall into someone’s arms, that have always been there, secretly, waiting for you to fall, so they could catch, hold you, then whisper softly that everything will be just fine. And you will believe them, and you will whisper the same things and somehow, out of nowhere, at the end of the hallway, exit doors will fling open, and a flood of light will rush through, and as your heart uplifts the sun heats your numb lifeless body, sweating, dying, dreaming of more, more, more