The Melancholy Grip of Sundays

Sundays
Are not the
Days of rest
They once were,
More like
Time traveling
Through moments
Of prolonged,
Existential dread
Where we ponder
Our mortality
And curse
The relentless
March of time
From the moment
We open our eyes
To the harsh
Morning light
To the last
Strains of a lullaby
That fades
Into the night.
Sundays are
The slow executioners
That lure us
Into complacency
With the promise
Of relaxation
Only to steal
Away our spirit
And remind us
Of the fragility
Of our being
Sundays can be
Silent killers
As we sit
In melancholy hush
Mourning the end
Of the weekend
While anticipating
The beginning
Of another
Mundane week,
The ticking clock,
The merciless
Reminder of
Our finite existence.
Sundays, truly,
Kill more people
Than guns ever did.