Late Night, Foggy Fever

by Violet P. Davies about a year ago in surreal poetry

Things are oddly clear here.

Late Night, Foggy Fever

The nerves in my feet are blood-hot

And I don’t know why

Behind my forehead everything is dead

But the sky is crackling

And I don’t want to go to sleep,

Even though I can feel myself falling, falling, falling…

Falling through reality

Into reality

What is reality?

I can hear the silence

Over the murmurs and chuckles of my roommate through the wall

It’s comforting to know I’m not the only one awake

But I can hear the silence

Over the clicking and ticking

Of clocks or sighing kitchen appliances

Is it the hum of artificial light?

Or is it the hum of silence?

The cat enters, licking his lips

I wonder what kind of concept he has

Of time

He stares at me

I don’t know why

Lick, lick, lick, lick, lick

Leap to greet the new arrival

My heels are still hot

Like I skidded all the way home

But I didn’t, I’m skidless, I walked

In a perfectly ordinary fashion

Surprisingly enough

surreal poetry
How does it work?
Read next: I Am A Bullet.
Violet P. Davies

Words make me feel fulfilled occasionally.

Keep track of me on Insta @purpleproseandposies

See all posts by Violet P. Davies