It feels like tomorrow is Sunday
Sundays feel like the natural end of things
The end and the beginning, only takes 7 days
Tomorrow isn't Sunday
But it feels like the end is coming
The end of what I set out to do
Finally realized and the first fruits of my labor
Being born
I get to look at what I've done up until now
Seeing what happens
When I make the choices I have made
The consequences, good or bad
I have wrought this into existence
A new experience
Notched into my being
Yet another tally
Yet this Sunday meant so much more
Sadness replaced by understanding
Fear replaced by hope
Death replaced by tomorrow
May the Sunday never come | 12:18
YOU ARE READING
Two Five Nine
PoetryA collection of poems , all written at midnight during the Covid-19 Pandemic. Streams of consciousness, ranging from all ends of the emotional spectrum.
