A treatise on apathy.

Moonless nights, alright, with stupor-heavy sleep-time;
Numbness, deep as oak-root or lonely walks with twilight bats,
Sickness and loveless and all the while lingering still—
Bending will, dread and dreams for half-written, re-written plans,
Rain-stained, and draining as long as the day, or a piece of string.

Long journeys home, the fleeting warmth of arms and others;
Nothingness, laboured as worries of worries, fraught and frayed, 
Apathy, a bold consistency, ensnaring with a beauty cold;
Everything great, plain, all the same into one, like a ouroboros—
Slipping into grandiose robes, so heavy and then some.