Well it is Sunday tomorrow.
The clock is ticking down.
Mass in the morning,
sleeping in the afternoon.
Dinner roasting,
pen in hand,
plans in making.
I think I'm going to write
the greatest poem
ever written.
It is trailing inside of me
even as I write
these words.
I can feel its' gripping force
capturing words
I'm trying to use.
Monday will come and
Monday will go.
When will these words
get written down?
Perhaps next week?
Perhaps next year?
Perhaps when I'm
feeble and old?
Maybe the words are just waiting
for a typical Sunday type of mood?
Who knows?
But I do know,
somewhere inside of me
is the greatest poem
ever written!