A polyester uniform, poorly stitched
Into my skin like a mark of ownership,
The threads themselves are cold-fire chains
Fastened around my withered limbs,
Whilst time itself is a leash of molten lead
Tightened by my wasted thoughts.
Reflected in the fading shine of my £20 shoes
I see no reason to be awake and no reason to sleep,
Except that being one avoids being the other
But either way there are no dreams or nightmares,
Just a question that has no answer
Because I can not afford one.