Contort Bruise of Cloud

A fear contorts the boot in my mouth. Of the lucid reality that might come true. Lucid in dreams of medicated trespassing into the realms of the dire fever. I do it every day. Shivers of ice heat, I loop around in my own deep. Head in the clouds, where I thought I had a crown. I know I must come down. The hole I've dug with all I've undone is crumbling above. I still have my spade, but is it a blade or a way out? Cancel my mind, it's wrapped in jealous vile, cry for the words to say. I need to communicate what I fear. I am what I fear. When closest to my memories, to my ethos. I need to be true. Not hold onto each past bruise.