Another Sunday comes,
promising shiny strings of beads from Mardi Gras,
or feasts of epic proportion,
it all looks so enticing.
Sundays should.
The menu, written in hieroglyphics,
these are pictures I know,
but I cannot place the words into the puzzle,
my skill at deciphering has deserted me,
there must be something to be done, but...
I do not speak the language.
Sunday should be something else entirely.
Such a big day, such a special name,
I would toil all year for a day,
named for a celestial body that gives us all life.
Were the sun worshipers so misguided?
I will leave this life with exactly what I brought in.
Some Sundays remind me that I am no more and no less than the elements,
but, I don't think these thoughts in a bad way.
Only in the way that lets me see the truth of my being,
one day after one day,
after the next.
