An Assortment Of Words

Waiting For Sunday

Six days a week played on repeat,
For twenty four seconds of silence at the end of the song,
The loop that never quite completes,
Floods your thoughts and then is gone,
Start watching as the time clocks over,
Desperate to be cocooned away,
In a soft, hidden sanctuary,
For several hours alone, but one,
Blissfully aware as the minutes dwindle,
Paused barely long enough to relieve the senses,
Until evening looms from warm slumber,
The numb knowing that in a moment it will begin,
And I will have to wait again for the unsatisfying decline,
That starts at eleven and is over by nine.