There is a kind of tired,
That resting can't assuage,
Not caused by sweat and labor,
Nor a product of great age.

Oft it creeps in slowly,
Caused by labors of the mind,
When truths compete as valid,
But no resolution find.

They grind against each other,
Then life adds in some grit,
Of reason, hope and longing,
That block and warp the fit;

Which erstwhile might be forming,
Were the process left alone,
To smooth the roughened edges,
Like a knife against the hone.

And form a polished surface,
Where the two can both reside,
Supporting one another, 
Standing stronger side by side.

But friction over zealous calls,
For effort hard and long,
To overcome the sticking points,
A glue that's thick and strong.

Competing hopes and hardened facts,
Pull and push and block,
Each in it's own direction,
'Till it stops, an unwound clock.

With such grit to clog the gears,
The truths are ground to dust,
And leave back no remainder, 
In which to hope or trust.