Tired is the hush that falls on the bones,
a slow collapse behind the eyes—
like dusk unrolling through the halls
of thought, where once bright echoes rise.
Tired in the mind is static hum,
pages blurred and drifting slow,
words that once leapt sharp and sure
now stumble, slurred, and cease to flow.
Tired in the flesh is heavy steps,
shoulders pulled by unseen hands,
the climb of stairs a mountain now,
the bed a far and foreign land.
Tired in the heart is quiet sighs,
smiles held up like broken glass,
the weight of joy too much to lift,
the days too wide, the nights too vast.
Each kind of tired speaks its own,
in ache, in fog, in silence deep—
a different shape of letting go,
a different way of falling sleep.
