exhaustion
like a robe
made of angry ants
wrapped around
the pink skin
of too much scrubbing
to remove the stain
of soul deep
sin

so tired
that sleep excuses itself
to the other room
to drink whiskey
while soft jazz plays
plucking notes of longing
from the emptiness
to build a nest
in the blanket fort
of restless disease

its all dry eyes
and aching limbs
in this house of cards
scattered by a dealer
with genetic nerve disorder
falling all around
the green felt topped table
of discontent

deal me in
one more hand
before i stare
at the ceiling
looking for answers
that don’t exist
to questions
never asked
in the loud quiet
of too tired to sleep