By Piccola Topo Gigio

It’s when I’m having incoherent thoughts,
And realize, my consciousness, is at odds,
When I can barely distinguish between what’s real, and what’s not.

My dreams, merging into wakefulness,
Webs of stories, from my sleeplessness,
Which seem to never stop.

I feel the heat; I feel the water, as I am sure.
Sure that I am sick, and that it’s not a product of my imagination,
Yet merely, a creation, of my hallucination.

While I’m in this state of comprehension, about how I ail,
It’s but a slight conciliation, for my body, being frail.

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