I am tired in the same ways that trees lose leaves each autumn.
Drifting to stillness from solidarity with the self.
Tired in the same ways embers reflect the bonfire.
Scalding hot yet outwardly tame.
I am as fatigued as the well-worn cliffs of my mountain home.
Run smooth by perpetual rainfall, yet never drowning.
I wither in the ways of the blight.
Wasting away too slow to witness without lapses in time.
I linger – youth ever fleeting, locked in a space before old.
And I am as tired as the shudder-yawns of ocean waves lapsing on rock.
There is no rest for the wicked, they cry!
But I am tired nonetheless.
Tired.
