Tiredness

By G!

You often tell me you're
Tired, well aren't we all?
Perhaps you'd like to write
A poem about it. Why, you
Might ask, aren't you writing
One? Why this is not a poem
About tiredness, it is merely a
Monologue on the meaning of
The subject, which as I see you
Have little interest in. On the other
Hand aren't we all self-absorbed and
Stuck in our own bubble; fated to face
Our own shortcomings alone and alienate
Others while we flounder in the quicksand
Of disillusion and despair? Maybe such dark
Sayings are only applicable to me, after all, you
Are not stuck in the vortex of absolutes, you even
Said yourself, dignity is not one of your most valued
Virtues; alas the same cannot be said of me. Now onto
The subject: fatigue. I suppose I'm not talking about that
In the physical sense, as common sense will easily dictate
Its meaning, but the state of fatigue that works on the mind,
Breaking down hopes, dissolving motivation, clouding up any
And all sense of purpose. From unsuspecting locations this subtle
Agent rises to take over the mind's workings. Was it the absence of
Purpose that brought about its ascent? Was it an inherent weakness of
Man that caused it to seize control? Was it always there in the first place?
Ah fatal fatigue, it grows strong and wears you down, until the next moment
And it's gone.
Where has it gone?
What will keep it at bay?
Why and when does it strike?
I suspect I know the answer
As well as you do: I don't.
By the way, the shape of
This monologue is that
Of half a lamp, isn't
That cool?