The Mercury's Lie

Shook it down, that old glass stick,

a relic from some past, felt sick

just watching mercury descend.

Then under tongue, where senses rend

to the slow heat, the body's plea.

It argues back, that silver line,

against the hope, it's never mine

to set the truth. Always too high,

a stubborn fever, a quiet lie.

That number, etched in fragile glass,

a cold small judge that will not pass

a kind word. Just the constant fight

against the body, day and night.