The child in me always thought
Tiredness precedes sleep,
Even when you cling,
Chubby-fingered and bawling,
To the doorframe, carried by mother
To your bed, which must swallow
You up at exactly 8pm
Each night,
Just like your stubborn yawn
Must swallow up your
"It's not fair"

And even when, no longer a babe,
Your sunny head nods upon the desk,
Upsetting the textbook mountain,
The smell of old pages,
Which dances off the papered walls,
Just like the sunlight
Which will warm your dewy face
(Fifteen minutes too late, anyways)
Will not wake you.
Because you were tired,
So you slept.

Yet now I'm tired, of a different kind.
The yawn: a gaping void
Edged by ivory swords;
Natural light becomes
The brightest spotlight star,
Not blazing to fan the world,
Or your sleepy eyes,
But to sore you under the magnifying glass,
You're still a small ant.

What is this tired thought,
That carries like a sickly yellow thread
From your nodding off
To your stunned morning blink?
How it knits you in,
Jabs the needle at your wink of humour.

To find out you seize
The light around, a mighty effort,
And direct it towards within.
But what you see
Makes your skin slither,
And then you still can't sleep:
Nightmares eat your sheep, one by one

And so you wander,
Bed headed always,
Scratching your chin,
Gazing in an unaffected way,
At this Tired, and say:
"Well, it's not fair"
Yet, I've never heard of anyone
Waking without having slept