Nomance 4

Slept late Sunday
My mourning spent asleep
My prayers nightmares
In a casket of covers
Six feet asunder
Pushing up lazies
Stiff as a boarder
In a hotel in the ground.

Some Sunday
My worship shall be one
Of love and let lie
My hymn a her
Your eyes stained glass
Your arms a cross
My chest
As if I martyr to you
As if preach time you breathe
My soul is saved.

Sorry Sunday
My bed two sighs too small
For so many dreams
No reason to rise
I shut my eyes
And atheize
For I'm no sleeping beauty
And you're no good knight kiss.

For Our Fathers

I suppose it is some solace
To say no tear's in vain.
I guess “His” gift's not gratis
For we pay for it in pain.
Don't you think we ought to thank
“Him” whom we suffer for?
For “His” blessing's what we bank
Our ever-afters by the score.
We devote to “Him” who dies,
As if suffering were somehow new;
As if each cretin who cried,
Was somehow less than “You.”
But it's so pretty still to say
There's purpose for life this way.