Another poem for you this week. I guess it’s about tiredness, but a different tiredness to the usual yawning sleepiness. It’s more of an ache that won’t go away and follows you through every single day until the smallest task becomes a challenge and you have no idea why. Anyway, here’s the poem!
Dust
It is an eternal ache
which seeps past body;
it becomes soul,
without asking permission
or extending a greeting–
no, it knows no politeness,
this awful dust.
It will hold my hand,
as it drives a knife
between the plates of my spine.
Blame it for dead mornings
and deader nights.
It forces my eyes open,
as I lie, waiting, for sleep,
but it doesn’t care for function.
I don’t know where it comes from,
or where it rests during dull moments
when it forgets me; all I know
is the haunting it commits to,
of my mortal body
and the immortal soul
and any other part of me that it can find.
It knows me as I do not know myself,
and destroys mysteries I have not solved–
taking the clues one by one,
it reduces all to dust.
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Oskar Leonard 