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What does nothing look like on a Sunday morning?
A pastiche of life’s most hidden treasures.
Waking up early to see the sun be born,
Its warm ardent hugs so full of pleasure.
No regrets nor obligations for today,
One with the couch, rapt in a book so fine,
My docile life on pause while the world plays,
Effusive fruit tastes fresh and silence divine.
This part of me is lazy.
Sitting around while my thoughts consume me,
Fusillades of uncertainty roam like crazy.
Over thinking candor is a nonentity.
Consummate Sunday, a saint of the week,
Leaves a lonely heart vexed and a brain meek.

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