When morning comes,
the nightmares will crawl back
into the crevices of the walls.
Every wicked creature gnawing at your skin
will scatter where the light
does not dare look.

When morning comes,
your body will feel whole again.
The void in the chambers of your heart,
will be filled with glorious light.
The air, once suffocating,
will lift you up
fill your lungs with ease.
Grace
will steady your breath.

When morning comes,
the people will gather.
Once lost, now they surround you
with love and kindness.
The emptiness beside you will fill again.
Hands will reach,
voices will soften,
and loss will learn to keep its distance.

When morning comes,
the trees will be ripe with harvest.
Toil, suffering, tears and sweat,
turn into grain and gold.
Seeds planted,
flowers bloom.
The cracked palms, the weary shoulders,
will finally taste their reward—
bread warm, water sweet,
a moment free of burden.

When morning comes,
it spills light on silence,
the stillness bends beneath the light.
The sun warms a shape that no longer stirs.
Its touch arrives softly, almost tender,
on skin already turning back into earth.

When morning comes,
I will already be elsewhere,
beyond its reach.