I have my senses blocked

I’m driven by an echoed effort,

Not fueled anymore by … Well,

Not fueled, and so I even fail at naming

What fueled my deluded self.

My tires, having held this shift now for a while,

Are flat, and I am rolling on my bare wheels,

I’m tired, though I’m doing nothing.

And nothing must be doing me,

For there is something hollow spreading

Over the flip side of my skin.