Sunday, boring Sunday

nailed to my chair
like a hand in a glove
with the world at my feet

I have nowhere to go
no friends to meet
I sit in retreat

a hollow space
an empty face
out of time
out of place

a boring Sunday
is al I have
nailed to a chair
birds in the trees

too far away
sky showing some fatigue
no one near enough to please
a longing is there

it says what you need
is some distracting sleep
to leave a boring Sunday
a withered leaf

(c) JR. eightees

Not so sacred, not mine

sittin' here in my easy chair its laziness
bein' a gift of the maker, with a glass of
wine in my hand

I'm starin' across the table where I picture
her there, sippin' her lost an' lonely wine
not so sacred, not mine, smilin'

I knew there and then this was not to be
forever, yet these are the nights I remember

and she left me as a good wine a reminder
of all those lost yesterdays where the wine
in the end was our only way we did
communicate

and yes, we drank from it our glass filled
with somethin' that never was now the bottle
lies bare

has run dry and it's clear we lost more than
we ever got out of somethin' not so sacred
as our wine was

(c) JR. 2018