Sunday Morn

Here’s another poem I wrote a while back (I don’t remember when). I was really sad when I wrote it. I somewhat like it.

 

Talk to him on Sunday Morn,

If sadness is what you seek.

His body is fine, but his spirit is broken

Rejection is what lies beneath.

Talk to him on Sunday Morn,

If solitude is your taste

For he feels lonesome; helpless

He feels too far from the light of grace.

Talk to him on Sunday Morn,

If confusion is what you want.

He cannot tie one string to another.

The end is what he’s lost

Talk to him on Sunday Morn,

He needs your truth right now.

A mask showing smiling faces,

Under his is a frown.