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: 2
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
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Comments1
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
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