The Sunday Poem!

A tired body,
A heart that aches, and
A dull day:
My Sunday poems lament my existence.

Last Sunday,
My body looked like a poem in tatters:
My loose bones hung like a decorative scarecrow,
A poor man’s bamboo pole to stand on and
The breeze that mock with the poking crows;
I resembled a skinny whore waiting for words to pity upon.

Each Sunday,
I resolved to set a day of countenance;
Today is also another Sunday
And I will get another chance to frown at it,
Its shredded newspapers on the week, and
The lousy reminders of all the mistakes.

This Sunday,
I will sail my soul to another planet,
So that I can sleep a while, and
My tired body can be balm at a hidden saloon, there
I will grow my heart again, in their delicate touch.

Today
I will pray:
'My Sunday shouldn’t cry like my poems.'