Sundays always smelled sharper.
Tasted harsh.
Even the sunlight cut deeper.
It sounded like a
dark Wagner symphony.
I’ve felt it since I was five—
lonely in the quiet.
Maybe it was school tomorrow.
God, maybe it was school tomorrow.
Or maybe it’s the truth:
Life keeps rolling
while people vanish.
Yesterday, his mother handed out
vials of ashes.
He drank one too many,
another fire snuffed out.
The sidewalks glare bright.
Sunshine in January—
a liar,
faking warmth,
mocking the chill in my chest.
Puffy white clouds
sharpen the loneliness
like a fillet knife.
I think of her—
my daughter, far away,
the laughter I can’t hear,
the arms I can’t hold.
I sip coffee, bitter
as this empty room.
Lonely as this
quiet Sunday morning.
-
Author:
Thomas W Case (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: January 13th, 2026 07:55
- Comment from author about the poem: Thank you to everyone who reads, listens, and keeps showing up here. The support matters more than you probably know. I just dropped a brand-new long-form poetry reading on my YouTube channel raw, unfiltered, and straight from the same place these poems come from. My books are available on Amazon.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 43
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Tristan Robert Lange, Teddy.15
Offline)
Comments8
Things made stronger by contrast, the peacefulness of a Sunday disturbed by thoughts now focused on. Wagner (one of my favorites) was dramatic showing strong contrasts in his music. The bitterness of coffee when missing someone. Past memories of others, contrasted with the loneliness of the present. It is the grit of life shown in this poem that gets the fave
Even they be near proximity wise they are still far away. Deeply moving, Thomas🕊️🙏🏻
Thank you.
Welcome
At one time Sunday always felt like doom was impending, and I felt that in this piece. However, at this end of life, for me, Sunday smooths out to any other day of the week.
Thank you, my friend.
Yes , School Tomorrow. And then Work Tomorrow. Never liked Sundays.
Thank you.
Thomas, this hurts in a quiet, honest way. The loneliness doesn’t shout…it settles in and refuses to leave. That restraint makes the grief feel real and heavy. Wonderfully done, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thanks
You are most welcome, Thomas. Hope you had a great Sunday, my friend!
Your poem captures grief, loneliness, and existential melancholy, all wrapped in the uneasy atmosphere of a Sunday morning. Sundays, often associated with rest or reflection, become here a sensory trigger for emotional pain, memory, and loss. Well Done my friend
Thanks, my friend.
So very powerful I also felt like you have described in your first stanza, I used to hate Sundays for the fact school was tomorrow although Sundays were not exactly peaceful in any case. A sad one I felt your heart on this dear Thomas. Always one of my favourite poets. 🌹
Thank you, sweet Teddy.
Chaos is overwhelming, but silence is deafening. Very relatable piece on this Sunday morning
Thank you.
You're so welcome
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