The bedside journal fills
With phrases not my own
Jotted in hasty lucid moments
When another life donned
The dawn reveals phrases
Hard to decipher words
The hand of another plays
Rhymes I have barely heard
A nocturnal gift received
From where do they come?
I truly will not ever know
Maybe borrowed, I will never know
Stoic Poetry
Through The Cracked Window (Revisited) 