Numb, An Author

numb as a clock with a drawn face haunted by my beats numb an author uninvented by sleep broken arm uninvented by sleep a tumbling wheel forming patterns in the sand whirling, uneven a bruise going deeper within releasing unhappiness it's work but not completed but what could be left what corner is kept my fever a cloud that thunders a fiction about you spoiled that which was good of any of it and seizes my moments both scolding and embracing collides with my silence ungraciously devolving and I give it a sign I surely am disarranged by sleep wear me away into my patterns in the sand whirling, uneven a bruise going deeper within