Weary of Time

I wake and find my sense of time’s surreal
I must have been asleep for fifty years
I guess a brain that’s broken never heals
I guess I should succumb to righteous fears

But righteousness is not a sense I own
My chronoceptors tick each time I turn
Perceptions I once planted all have grown
And now the fields of stubble simply burn

Though weary, I traverse an ashen field
In hopes of finding flowers; none are seen
It seems that nothing grows and I must yield
To aspirations striving to stay green

And though my steps resound like couplets rhyme
My journey bears the weariness of time.