A poem for the tired ones.

Waking into weariness
sinking feelings
having spent far too much
now the day
demands its fee, its payment
in pure energy…

I have drunk from Lethe
or at the breast
I never wished to be parted
from the comforting warm
and steady nourishing flow,

I know
we must pay to exist
but I am so wildly wantonly weary
that I will fold myself
and put my soul under the pillow
to wait for restful nights.

Chris P