A New Sunday
Clouds moving, alarm ringing;
Yet the child sleeps still...
Daydreams drift, revealing their boredom,
All this soul desires is the taste of freedom.
Eyes opened, scanning the room,
Parents' schedules echo with a familiar tune.
It's Sunday again—
Yet parents busy strategizing,
Planning for the week ahead, no time for realizing.
Without a word, the child's spirit takes flight,
For it’s a day of loneliness, a quiet blight.
Mind attacks, life feels tragic,
Sunday break, once more, feels like magic.
Once, weekends flew, weekdays spun all around,
But sorrow whispers, "You've wrongly found!"
Wishing fictions were reality, reality fiction,
But all that we seek is lost in fractions.
It's Sunday here, once again!
Thoughts racing, finding ways,
Yearning for the lap’s soft embrace.
Nothing more than sheer negligence,
With no power to the soul's utterance.
Wishing for a chance to speak, so quick—
That in a blink, the soul could vanish thick.
Yet, people say Sundays are “fantastic,”
But the soul's mind is turning drastic.
Daydreams morphing into nightmares now—
No one to care, no one to endow.
This is how a modern Sunday feels—
A longing heart, an empty wheel,
Telling, "It’s Sunday break once again!"
Copyright © Anwesha Das | Year Posted 2024
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