salt in the wound

sunday mornings
have a nuanced
melancholy
a saturation of
softly stinging sorrow
the bottom half
of the hourglass
buries the day
an internment
of contented smiles
dragged across the
barb wire sense
reality will bear down
suffocating all joy
leaving just a stain
of strained disdain
for the silence
that will soon ensue

sadness hooks itself
a leech growing
fatter every hour
and there is nothing
to combat this
succulent misery
even as the house
fills with the scent
of cinnamon rolls
the coffee has dripped
while the lazy sun
absent all weekend
peers out to savor
the depressive fugue
muting all into a
swallow and casual
shade of indifference

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