Soul tired

My soul was tired, worn,
huddled under weariness
which clothed the days,
and broken minutes of

my mind, where detritus
of hope lay withered, in
a groping of itself, beyond
the place where it could

hold any shape, which
was recognisable. Yawning
in that cavern of forgetting,
soul languished, and in

ancient palms, observed;
slowly counted out the
moments of becoming:
calling all to account.