Saffron Fever

A golden infection spreads across the page.

The ink starts to throb.

It is a bright, rising swell,

a hot sun trapped within the vowel.

*

This language is a living, stinging thing.

It pushes against the dry paper,

a vibrant, molten growth

that cannot be contained by margin or line.

*

Look at the hue of it.

Saffron, amber, a fierce, shouting orange

that bleeds into the white.

It is the sudden, terrifying joy

of a thought finally catching fire.

*

It is not a scrape. It is a birth.

The words are too big for the skin of the sentence.

They stretch. They grow taut.

They shine with the fever of existing.

*

Everything here is vivid.

Everything is saturated.

The syllables are warm to the touch,

a radiant, pulsing map

of someone deciding to simply be.

*

The page is finally hot.

The words are finally alive.