Sunday
When you finally chose to wake me up it was nearly sunset. My fridge, nearly empty. My home, nearly vacant. My world, nearly auctioned. And my bed, cluttered with the dust of summits, and lesser men. Someone from somewhere whispered it was Sunday, whispered it was okay. There was linen to wear, and places to go. Serenades to follow, and lavender to sow. Hands to hold on to, a Christ to kiss, and heavens to stow. The deeper the dive, the darker the scream, the closer the glow, the sharper the spear. When you finally chose to wake me up it was nearly complete, nearly over, nearly here.