Sunday

Photograph by Kai Langford-Do

My life hasn’t changed
in many ways,
only the smallest of things
such as lazy Sundays.

Where hours would creep by like a tarantula,
now they crawl like a moving castle,
with a crinkle-crankle of wooden gears,
and cloisters loud enough
to ring through your ears.

Burdens don’t wear off,
but are instead worn down
and everyone can see it on me,
especially in my frown.

Sunday is the day where miseries pile up,
all detritus gathers,
and it only takes a small blow
to send those dandelion seeds scattering,
to each and every corner of the room
When I pick up the pieces,
I believe I’ll dust my broom.

A little shudder of the bed
and a mob of faeries glide everywhere
I have to open a window
and let the vestiges
of my Sunday
spill out into the world
like angry spores.

The Power of Poetry