Sunday

What a quaint and small conception you have of the world Sunday Sunday while you are polishing your rhetoric in pews with the silver laden coffers of your charity tucked neatly into your wallet Sunday A bright angel of hymns goes dancing through grave yards where you have lain all heavens in death and spent life mourning the passing of a cloud when the shadow it cast was the hand of God Sunday In pealing bells crosses the un-open fields of ideals Sunday, brings to its alter of blessed wine the mockery of blood sweet sugar Sunday, coated, painted, white and powder puff heresy Sunday, a Ploughmans Lunch of righteousness and self confessed aggrandizement a roast beef deliberation of the eternal joke has you kissing the priest feet instead of the sun Sun-day Sunday; the candy cotton collected plethora's of worship forgives the villain and felon with confession and still breaks its bread on the table of the starving virtuous bloody Sunday beating at wrist with Roman nails wearing its tears in a crown of thorns and sumptuous retires in a fat kissed bangle Sunday; the barricade of belief that knowingly knows no one should work while the vultures are picking at societies bones and the Papal sacrament makes you homeless on the bleached and baking wastelands of Earth This is Sunday in all its finery of dripping candels and out of tune hymns stained glasses of faith and broken bent knees Sunday feckless Sunday