when the days and nights
slam through
doors open
all the way so that
you don't run aground
as you're flying
through the hours, minutes, seconds
Daylight turns into starlight
turns into the dashboard light
and sometimes
into the bedside light
or the light of day
peeking under
the blinds
Your food is sweeter,
drinks are colder,
textures are more inviting
as are you,
as is he
But weekends like this,
where your chest is tight,
and,
for no apparent reason
you can't stop the feeling
of suffocation
leeching breath from your throat
lungs
heart
soul
Now the weekend is on a collision course
with stagnancy and cement blocks
it's a never-ending black shroud
of mourning
though for what
or whom,
you're unsure
It just is -
death of joy, perhaps?
Freedom?
That self of yours which just last week
was full of light and energy and joie de vivre
is now locked tight inside of a submerged coffin
sinking to the bottom of the deepest abyss.
Your only hope is that
Monday comes quick
And full of sun.
Who knew Mondays could actually
be something one wanted?
http://canonphotos.deviantart.com/journal/Canon-Feature-600159473
