Nightly, words wash out of frail body,
Clenched jaw and trembling wrist.
Journal pages lavish with ink,
Bits of others past muddle present.
Raised fingers with Doxology letting,
Free toward moonlight on cool wind.
Empty jar of joy spent by hours wear,
Slowly nearing a delicate state of respite.
Morning will come, must appear,
Sun will spill out burnished
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