Of the five senses, touch was the first to go
When the rot set in.
Necrotic from disinterest; disused and numb,
A disconnected *****, a colony of one.
.
Then sound; your messages left unheard.
Just the tap tap tap of some manic mind.
No pause...just repeat; the eternal rewind.
Sleep starved, all words stick frozen in time.
.
For leading me into temptation; my gluttonous sins,
Taste and smell succumbed, then withered and died.
Staunch as a deacon, control finally mine.
The harvest ignored, bloated  on the vine.
.
Only sight eludes my metal fatigue.
The mirror much stronger, it haunts and it taunts.
Its warped funhouse images all I can see.
The bully I made...this cruel double of me.

I have reached an age where I don’t sleep
A lot, she said, except perhaps a little
After lunch, or sometimes in the morning
While I wait for that Norwegian girl
Who comes to do my plants and pots and pans
And brings me those old fashioned custard tarts.
And when she leaves I might just close my eyes
To take a moment’s rest, or two, before
I start another chapter of this book.
I will sit up and read all night, you know,
As I have reached an age where I don’t sleep
Except perhaps a little, after lunch,
Or sometimes in the morning, while I wait.