Feverish.

60 before time, and I wake to find,

A steady chill creep down my spine.

The heat does bare, warm on my brow,

The world around me seems slower somehow.

I wonder if I dream, if all is real,

The oceans inside me, the thunder in peals.

I venture anew, from under cover of cloth,

In order to see what has been brought forth.

Hands unsteady, heart a flutter,

I sway to the mirror, like motion through butter.

Making it barely, I glance up to see,

The man in the mirror is no longer me.

A gasp escapes, a slow exhale,

Fingers trace the outlines, cold and pale.

I am not who I was when I first laid to rest,

I am a wraith, a shadow at best.

I try to locate the cause of the change,

Whatever happened, what manic exchange.

The thoughts run madly, through my muddled mind,

What did I liken to, and be likened to in kind.

Something happened, of that I was certain,

But the reasons escape me, like light through drawn curtains.

I can no longer stand, and as I slump to the ground,

The whispers welcome me, the comfort of sound.

Time grows slower still, lights start to dim,

The warmth takes its leave, darkness creeps in.

With the last few shreds of coherent thought I possess,

I scrape I scramble I cry out in distress.

Alas, no possible escape do I find,

From the horrors that plague the recesses of my mind.