Sunday

So, I rose every Sunday
Drowsy, wobbly, angry
Was never an early riser
And Sundays were the worst,
I was up with the Sun.
It was seen to it that I was.

Dreadful Sundays, dreadful days
A little rebellious mind
pummelled to submission
on every dreadful Sunday
Polka dots and pigtails, big brown eyes,
a dreadfully angry spirit.

They told me he lived there
I believed, for a while
Then their cleverly crafted lies
(absolutely unnecessary)
gnawed through my faith
gnawed through it with termite teeth.

Scuttled their own ship
they killed their own
with the toxin of their lies.
And then A Big Fat Atrocious Lie unbound me
and shoved me roughly
into a world of strangers.

Which faces are familiar?
I see a million of them
And for a while I searched
for eyes that would hold mine
a smile of recognition, kinship.
Now my eyes are closed, I search no more.

Those Sundays were dreadful
I rose too early to go where he lived (or so they said)
And stayed back too late
so they could speak their narcotic words
that would deaden my tongue,
so I may only listen and never speak.

And so I left.
He came with me.