Fever Poem by M.L. Squier
Fever
When I was a feverish young boy
on a bed
I dreamt I was writing inside
of my head.
The words swirled &
spread
like I was going to be
dead.
As my temperature
rose
So did the wondrous
prose.
It felt like I was writing
a good book
As my sick and hot body
shook & shook.
As soon as my fever went
away
I went outside and began
to play.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Topic(s) of this poem: sick
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8/28/2026 6:00:21 AM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
