And on Sundays
Sometimes
My flesh vessel
My body
My cage made of ribs
Feel so barren
As if i shouldn't have done
What I've done
The night before
As if I had just been caught
For some heinous crime
And this cage of mine
Then feels like a garden bed
Of only seeds and saplings
No real hope
No bloom, no fruit
And then,
I clutch my chest,
Swallow my limping tongue,
And the residues of songs unsung leaves me
And comes the night fall
Then dusk
Birds start singing again outside the window
And the sun creeps in
And on Mondays
Sometimes
The coffee kicks in just when the flowers wake up
And the sun, creeps in
BS
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