A Fevered Mind
In the wee, wee hours when all is still
You can feel your blood athrill
When you hear the ghostly sounds
Of whispered words and baying hounds.
Who is it that speaks so low
That the distant mooing of a cow
Sounds like the plaintive cry of a soul
Echoing from the depths of an abyssal hole?
You give a silent, terror-stricken scream!
Are you in a surrealist dream?
Or is it due to the daily grind
You’re left with only a fevered mind?
The sounds you hear at the midnight hour
Your sanity will neither make nor mar,
For there’s enough cause for you to sorrow -
Your eyes will never, ever see a morrow!
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
