If I could only
throw off the weight,
of the exhaustion, I bear .

If I could shed, the insomnia
in a paper coil,
of alabaster snakeskin--
shrug it off,
heavy shoulders

Like a fur lined coat,
a chinchilla plush,

my skin at once,
too hot, and too cold .

it is unseasonably warm;
my body, buzzing,
rolling forward, in a neutral gear
down a winding road
a bundle of nerves, wrapped
into ticking, fat sticks.

There's the pain,
the pulse, of pure,
unfiltered pain
that reminds, my skin-suit

to reanimate,
upon the odd occasion.

Boss, says:
"dance"
and so I quickstep,
into a foxtrot,
among dozy landmines.

The fatigue,
has eaten out its hollows
under the dull glow,

of once vibrant eyes.