Fever

The fever paces the streets,
blinding the corridors in its nocturnal sadness
looking for eyes wandering, lost,
still and burdened
in its own color

The wind plays with the cold
for months even in the warm seasons.

A body crosses the bridge
still wearing his mustache,
tangled with ice

His eyes, a black hole;
his lips, the shredding of a self
He’s suddenly whole, then suddenly empty

the fever builds a house out of a man
stores in it jars and jars of isolation,
rusty toolboxes,
dust heap of journals,
of photographs, letters unread

the floor is soiled and dirty
the walls stand in exhaustion
at night, he dances with the doom and torment,
with brooms and sticks and unusual

Distress plays a music ethereal in his ears
the fever took over
the bedposts, the pillows, the blanket,
and the darkness has a bright color
the cellular rings and rings until it stopped

The man is helled to bed and sorry
until he is no more
Until he is nothing
The fever finished the house
Steps into the chair like a master
Harried the depths of his heart
and found nothing
Soundlessly, the man hangs himself in the ceiling
And the deads sound the bells of forlorn

The fever smiles
and parades the street looking for sad eyes to feed.

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