Sunday - By Aneka B.

Sunday

Subtle tones of humidity in the air.
Neck tension catching on fire.
The window's telling stories.
The rain's playing hide and seek with the sun.

And everything stinks like false priorities.

To the majority at least.

Everybody's one last excuse before being buried alive.

The guilty following the carnival
To the big black house of redemption.

As the rest of us reduce our
Spirituality to Video Games and TV

In search of the same fulfillment.

Sunday.

The knives still stuck in all our backs.
We follow blindly.

One day to remember
What we do not have.
What we can\'t achieve.

Recruiting others.

Only the children,
In their abandonment,
Have left the masses
To honor the universe
And it's secrets.

So when we fiction
Our way to next Sunday
We might leave a friction
Up to fate. 




- Written by: Aneka B.

My poem can be used after permission and only if the author's name is mentioned in some way
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