They drip like slick stalactites –
By foggy window\'s frost,
While the fever grows inside of me overnight.
Yes, the crying icicles glisten under moonlight –
Drowning. As if drowning in a thought...
They drip like slick stalactites.
Pale – lightheaded – sickening winter bites.
Bedbound poetry...tries to speak... but cannot;
While the fever grows inside of me overnight.
I was searching for a sprite,
But they drip with trickery - I wound up lost.
They drip like slick stalactites.
Yes, the ones that do entice –
But are rarely ever caught.
While the fever grows inside of me overnight.
My zealous heart embarked itself to plight,
For it did not discern the bitter cost that arouses these tears.
They drip like slick stalactites -
While the fever grows inside of me overnight.