I asked the librarian if the library had books on paranoia. She whispered, they're. . .

What do you call a pencil with two erasers?

Though born with fingers, none can feel. I guard with cloth instead of steel.

I carry pain, but no broken bones, A heavy fatigue that is mine alone. Though x-rays and scans show nothing is wrong, My muscles still ache all the day long. I am not a virus, nor cut from a blade, Yet light touches hurt, like a shadow or shade. A phantom of fog in the brain and the mind, A chronic condition that’s hard to define.

I offer heat and endless sand, or leave a duty left unmanned. Though one is place and one is choice, they share a single written voice.