Tired

There's a numbness in this plane,

It spills into everything,

The man sweeping the street with the 

fatigued tank of energy he's got left,

It's the last feeling before the eyes shut for the day,

Hard to describe, but it's a specific, ever looking, all pervading feeling,

There it is, standing before you and the day ahead,

The first thing you

feel and the last.

It's a tortoise, or perhaps a sloth,

it could be the waking version of sleep,

because that's what I am, or what *it* is,

But it's me