One More Fever

The air is sweet with summer
and the summer close as death,
this death as red as of Macbeth
who calls the numb to number.
 
The grass itself is goading
as it brags of goodness green;
the severed sky, the subtle seen
lends patience to eroding.
 
The night is quite a number -  
how it steals the breath away! -
but stumbles 'way the sign of day
which fruitless steps encumber.
 
Some mind recalled the vision
of the calendar (in fire!);
it does aspire to wick the wire,
it sings to no incision -  
And bitter stays the end of days,  
a spot of blood yet throbbing;
remains the will of sunning ill
but stills the sound of sobbing.
 
 
~
Age when written: 15