NaPoWriMo 17/30 Death of a poem

Placed neatly in the wooden box
the lid is grazed by graceful fingers
over the long years you took some knocks
and now your voice echoes, lingers.

Creating a dance of letters
the words fell from my pointy pen
nights trying to make you better
but the sun was setting, my friend.

We should have sung at our first chance
thrown those words out into the sky
but shaping had us in a trance
and now your words will never fly.

You are the reason I am me
Therapy from reality
helped me conquer the how to be
helped unlock the insanity.

Your voice may have faded away
Your words dissolved into nothing
and this empty blank page will stay
but your memory will keep on living.

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