Pyrexia

i'm not getting the fever the heat or maybe the lamps come on like fire furnaces blazing through a thousand years of holocaust rememberance ashes in the wind from the dead bodies of innocent people with the blue faces slandered and slanted to be responsible for the weight of the problems those immeasurable deficiencies un-abounding into the slaughter of the merry-go-round with the painted horses going in circles and circles and circles and the square tears are cried opaque opiate square tears i was running through the dangers of time without any shoes got blisters on my feet and then on my hands from touching everything i see AND THE FEVER I NEVER GOT THE FEVER i never felt the fire of the strange love of the fire with the erratic need for deliverance shining bright whites the flames and then the girl stopped to paint the merry-go-round horses with her gold fingers from the picture on the wall in her mind in the back near the synapses where they used to make her wait for days like a cat in a bag drowning failing to remember where is the lamp in the dark it's a fire i didn't plan the petals right my flower fell apart