Another Sunday comes,
promising shiny strings of beads from Mardi Gras,
or feasts of epic proportion,
it all looks so enticing.
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.