The darkness moves toward morning—sun and moon in their cycles,
and I in my bed lie awake with the constant thrumming of words in my head.
My body tosses and turns; my words toss and turn, and
sleep is an enemy, crouching far off, taunting.
Pain is magnified in the dark with no distractions. And
the aching in my head beats rhythm to the beats of my heart and the beating that I am giving my soul for regrets as
darkness moves toward morning.
Apronhead 
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