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Tired Boy
He fed on grapes and found the grind of gears
that led him to a fistful of dollars and some bits of coin.
He was exhausted, from what appeared to be nothing,
but a vicious sort of nothing that clawed at his eyes.
The glow of the screen with its clock in one corner
was a lucid reminder of the time he would be wasting
on such a dreary, dull life; one he had crafted
while waiting for a purpose to clarify and speak.
Constant dull aches, from heart to loose motions
that he forces himself to repeat on certain still nights,
would return as a haunt would, to spook and discourage -
to reduce the man to a boy made of nothing.
And as he tends to do, he'll question why he's trying
to change such a being with such fundamental flaws.
The questions that he asks really have no answers,
besides the obvious, the moral and the wrong.
Yet still he is living, but for nothing and for not,
despite the world's insistence that he was meant for better.
