(7/30) On Any Given Sunday



On 
any given 
Sunday,
I'll write a poem
that is not a poem;
more like a love letter
to all the summers I've wasted;
an apology to all the moments
I've hesitated to live in.

It turns into a private sermon
preached from an empty pulpit;
a soliloquy of solitude written by
an open window, framing Springtime
and Armageddon like van Gogh.

It will be riddled with
anxiety and sweetness;
a broken syrupy pancake
too close to touching
scrambled eggs sitting
on a square plate
at a 90 degree angle.

It will become the
ghost of lips haunting
the nape of my neck;

a graveyard full of zombie
goosebumps searching for
follicles that no 

longer exist.



© 2020 Abruvanamedsly



Sunday


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