Sundays

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Peace flees from me

As I am woken by anger.

The yellow day turns gray.

What is over is my slumber.

"God's holy day" starts at home with noise.

The bickering.

The screaming.

Why are these days sour in its wake?

Sundays are crazy.

This routine I face is lame.

The parentals prepare to leave

With no trace of grace.

Then, come back

In calm ways.

Why must they go rampant in the first place?

Church is like a sport to them

And they must catch every play.

My peace returns when they leave,

So I can prepare

To gather at the house they make this day towards.

He and I will have lots to talk about.

Once again

And always.

Revisiting my thoughts: Poem from within [Vol 4] *RE-EDITS IN PROGRESS*Where stories live. Discover now