Rushing steps halt cold,
Crimson glare demands patience—
Time drips through still air.

Monday is here,
the week begins,
the alarm clock rings
and rudely wakes me
from my sleep.
I do not feel fair of face,
and I do not wish
to get out of bed;
But alas, the grind resumes
and the sooner we start,
the sooner we finish.

©️ Lizzie Bevis

Mondays seem to always be overcast
With late mornings, and spilled coffee
I come home to Sunday’s chores and a warm bath.
Soaking my sore muscle strains
The bubble bath looks more like thunderstorm
Soap clouds swirling
And drain mimicking the sounds of rain
To lay here for hours? Or go to sleep
Wishing I could slowly drift away
Water caressing my body, like silk sheets
It’s getting late
Finally I am at peace

There is a dead beetle on the floor in the bathroom.
It has been there for weeks.
Someone must have noticed it but paid it no mind.
More than someone.
Someones.
No one has bothered its carcass.
Its legs are curled in at odd angles, not unlike an infant sleeping.
Someone would notice an infant sleeping.
An infant sleeping on the floor of a bathroom.
Or an infant dead in a bathroom on the cold, grey tiles.

The color of its dark body is in stark contrast to the light floor, but still it is ignored.
Have I been bright enough in this life to stand out?
Am I light against the dark?
Or dark against the light?
Will I be remembered?
As I slide through the experience of living, I don't know what impression I've made.
Am I the dead beetle?
Will I be the dead beetle?
My life has not been bold.
One may only presume the same of the beetle.
There are too many people in this world for me to be a true stand-out.
I merely exist.
No matter my color against the background of life, I am simply waiting to be swept away.
As inconsequential as a dead beetle in the bathroom with little attention paid.

There is a saying that everyone dies twice.
First when you leave the mortal realm.
The second time when your name is last spoken and your memory ceases to exist amongst the living.
What if you never live and are paid no mind.
Can you really die then?
What if I am not even the beetle?
What if I'm less than a drop in the bucket in the universe and I slip through the cracks of society?
At least the beetle gets a poem.

Mondays
are the some days
You sometimes dread,
and wish to stay in bed,
but looking back,
it's a fact,
that Mondays,
were the one day,
that made it all make sense.