Weary

Lay your head in a nested spool

Of molten, burgundy garnets;

Polished disc of obsidian,

Melted lipstick on the carpet.

You've not eaten today.

But, that's alright, you're not hungry.

Surrounded by stories;

But you're too tired to read.

Yours is still written, to this day,

Even as you sleep;

Unseen by passing feet.

And though you've scattered and let lie

All of the matters on your mind;

You're too tired

To close your eyes.