THE QUANDRY OF QUARANTINE

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There’s a chill in my bones spreading like wild fire through the fog of my being

There is a fever in my blood freezing my cells one at a time and then I’m spiraling down this abyss of me against myself

There is freedom in my ideals imprisoning the corpse of a former occupant of my body

And the chill prevents it from decomposing
Lest the smell of fermented weirdities should well up to choke me

as I pretend I am like every normal man quarantined not in his house
but in his head not afraid to die or live
However afraid to even consider the former or the later question of this existence

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