The Fever

It was the result of muddle,
A fiend's muddle,
The rage and despair of Nietzsche
Incipient in a Laodicean luau.
Me metamorphosed measuredly
Into a brute lying in tribulation,
Ears pricked to bravado boasts, brutal.
I shudder...
Woe beckons.
I shudder...
The Upper Hand wantonly whirlwinds words.
My hand is on my mouth.
I shudder with sorrow...
Then, the word is seen.
The Word is seen!
Nodes of nouns,
Atoms of adjectives,
An all-night nightmare
Wrestling with a whirlwind's
Unanswerable voice visible, seen, seen!
Zero-hour, the boiling point.
Nouns bead across my harangued forehead.
Adjectives calmly, warmly, pour from my pores
Acquiescing the terrifying rhetorical trial in my mind,
They coolly travel an alternate route to my tongue
And kilned clay speaks,
Not of redemption,
But of reprieve.