Sunday came like a butterfly opening its wings,
It was no longer a worm it could fly,
I opened the morning like a can of baked beans,
It was messy and there was a pain in my eye.
I probably had too much fun the night before,
My friends, and I were celebrating the World Cup.
We have dark memories in us that surface,
When we are just floating on a sea of regrets.
I walked out towards the Sun letting the light in.
Then I thought I should be walking the other way,
Into the darkness away from the light.
I looked back at the girl on the grass bleeding to death.
There was a knife in my hand with her blood on it.
Our marriage had been a mistake,
We were too young to know about responsibility,
She said I was a coward who lied to her.
She got angry and hit me in the eye with a frying pan.
I reached out and stabbed her in the heart.
Sunday closed like a coffin lid with the Police banging on the door.
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Author:
David Wakeling (
Offline) - Published: July 26th, 2026 00:52
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 16
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
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Comments3
Tragedy befalls young rash decisions and the folly becomes tragedy. Well written my friend.
Thank you so much mi amigo.I appreciate your comments
You are most welcome
A fragile beauty Sunday is as a butterfly opening its wings. Such is the mourning of a quiet passing of day that has brought warmth, gentleness and sanctuary which shall bequeath itself to Monday. 🙏🕊️
Well said compadre.Always a joy to read your insightful comments.Sunday can be a worry
Likewise, yours! And to be fair, Sundays are not exactly what they used to be. Remember that song that goes, "Standing in line with a dirty mind/ I don't like Sundays..." (Sunday Morning by Bolshoi)
David, what a wildly unsettling piece! The absurd humor lowers our guard before the darkness takes complete control...and that closing leaves no room for escape. Quite the devastating turn, my friend! 🌹🖤🙏🕯️
Indeed you are right. Its can be how we feel the morning after.Thanks for your wise insight mi amigo
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