without a need

fatigue
is sweet in a strange way.
when you
can't get up, or talk,
or raise a finger
to argue.
you just want to unfold
your bones and lie down.
on a rug or bed, under a table,
in the cold
black street. makes no
difference. you don't
care about the dust
upon your brow,
or the rain falling
in blue pellets
from the low bank of clouds.
you've reached a point
of being done. cooked.
tired beyond tired,
beyond belief.
seared and burned.
the eyes are red.
the mouth is dry.
nothing seems worth
reaching for
to drink or eat.
you can't fall asleep.
you can't stay awake.
you just want to lie there
without a thought,
without a care
without a need.