Sunday Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

I woke up
Next to the stationary
Bedposts
The tousled bed sheathes
And the abandoned
Dreams

I thought of what to do
On a Sunday
I was eaten up,
Consumed,
Devoured,
Pulled on a string,
Denuded,
Mocked

By nothing.

Sunday gloom
I am a flower that does not bloom.
The clocks tell me
Of the fractured night
And the vulnerable morning
That is about to whittle away
In the morose wind
And machine-like whirs.

What to do on a Sunday
Can be paraphrased into
What to do with life
On an everyday basis.

And I guess we are bound
And tethered to one
Decision. Only fools
Deny this.

There was no choice
But to sully away
And resign to
The bed again -
Dead
And ridiculed.