Magic Fever

The magic fever that pulses beneath my chest could cook up a mean stake in an adventure that could very well last a lifetime. I check ahead for the cumbersome bags of crimson semaphores and realize that you've found a way to tie an ethereal leash from under my nose to the tip of your finger and it's got me so eager to close the gap I've forgotten to leave space for the words I'd need to ask for more.

I wonder about the strategy books that line the shelves of your castle, the ones about how to set brains on fire, the art of lighting up the flesh of thought and soul in the darkest darkness while feet and hands flail and fight to keep doors open or shut--to smother the fire or to feed it.

This secret fire is hungry, starving even, desperate to breathe, yearning for the cool breeze of translation.