WAKING UP IN THE FEVER DREAM

 

Waking Up in the Fever Dream  

Born in the shadow of algorithms and ash,

watching empire choke on its own gold.

Capital hums like a drone overhead,

and it’s doing something strange to my blood,

I swear.  

I am glitch.

I am wildfire.

Lying in the neon hum

of a hospital named for saints nobody trusts,

staring at cracked ceilings,

feeling oddly alive.  

The air’s been privatized,

bottled by suits who trade futures in breath.

It’s everywhere, this transaction—

but try pointing at the thief.

So you sit, palms heavy,

chewing on silence,

plotting your next rebellion.  

What’s the move?

What’s left to prove

when you’re screaming into the void?  

Thumbs twirl, useless,

building toys for landfills,

selling dreams to vultures

circling a rotting flag.

The system’s half-crashed,

rigged by ghosts of wiretaps

and promises nobody kept.

Faith feels like a fever dream now.  

Still, you want to claw back,

trace every lie to its root,

scream until the pipes burst.

The world’s a gallery of wrongs

you can’t unsee.  

But your lungs rasp like old vinyl,

and you’re stranded at the edge of the ice,

betting clothes in a game

that’s rigged to freeze you out.

Every loss stings sharper,

every round colder.  

So go on—

make your move.

Show us what’s burning,

what you’re desperate to prove

to the mirror.