The Week Ends on Monday

 

I chuckle
Not because of what you said
But because
Of how wrong you are

Friday is Anguish.
The week has been cruel
I have finished my acting
quota.

Saturday is Alone.
All but abandoned
by myself
Face glowing blue, to escape.

Sunday is Hope.
That next week will be better
That someone might ask
“Are you OK?”

But no one ever does
Because I hide it too well
A cardboard cutout among statues
Who appear two dimensional.

Blame them
Blame myself
In the end it’s the same
And by Friday I want out.

 

 

 

 

Night Ahead, Dawn behind

Behind me, the dawn of civilization permeates over the darkened hills

Ahead, mountains tower

But they are dwarfed

By the endless sky

 

The darkest navy canvas,

It is worn with pinholes

Through which brilliance

Shines

 

Gravel crunches, as I am swept

By a celestial wave, blanketing the earth in its infinite tide

Only to be burnt out by the industrial glow of man

Far behind

 

 

The night is young

The mountains bare

The stars a’shining

And the path a’calling

 

The Head That Balanced.

A notch aligned with a post

And perfectly balanced upon

It

is a head.

 

So precarious,

the slightest breathe of fate may

blow it from its perch.

Inhale

Exhale

The post

rises

and

falls

 

Alas, to no avail

the head remains true to its post

A finger moves a centimeter

A mother bemoans

A father drinks

A sister sobs

A brother hides

A wife grieves

A child

has to push themselves

on a wooden swing set

built by a love

that no longer may forge

childhood memories.

 

For the head has fallen

from its perilous perch.

A human yesterday

A number now

A million missed moments to be proud of tomorrow.