It was Sunday
Sunday afternoon
Sitting alone on the bay
Doing nothing but waiting for the moon.
Feeling bored and scared.
Sighing and singing
Something bad would happen
His  life might be taken.
He still recalls the gloomy space
As if  the last meeting with this place.
Monday morning
Was in a hurry
He  was walking
But his mind was dreary.
Early in the morning
His  fate was waiting.
Walking in the street
As if he were blind
Hurry! Seven thirty
The ground is so thirsty.
Hit by  his fate
Taken to  hospital
It  was too late.
Nothing was good at all.
They did thrive
To make him survive.
He did survive
But he could no longer dive.
His fate  has taken a lot
It was just one sudden shot
Waken up from a deep coma
He asked
Is it Sunday?
I am sorry it is Monday.
Though hard to say.
He wanted to go  back to the bay
To sing and play.
He found no way
But to weep
Monday has ruined his life
Today he is alone
Holding his phone
Can time go back?
And recover his heart and his back.
He died on Monday
The day he could no longer play.
Scars everywhere
Is that fair?
They don't care.
No need to stare.
Monday has offered him
An eternal wheelchair.