seeing sense

clock-warning digital-red one-twenty-three
I ought to be abed, not hunched insanely
watching contortions of smooth-swathed wax
wrapping pale-flicker thoughts, chasing elusive facts
with a mashed mind bouncing off the walls
my bed of lace-edged comfort calls
give in with grace, capitulate
to sleep and rest, acceptance of Fate,
a morning of sanity, restlessness quelled,
hope for movement of spirit, and broken spells
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