Some rambling…
Sunday. Sunday. Sunday.
Rising to find the papers chock full
Of dates and names
Intersections and missing children.
You know when your sitting on that rock,
On top of that hill,
In the woods behind that red house,
And your staring at the sky,
Waiting but not hopefully and
The grey meets the blue
And there’s that streak of yellow running through
Every cloud in the sky.
But in your mind the only color you
Perceive is purple, not a regal purple
But a pale kind of purple that makes you think
That everyday you wake up is Sunday.
And you simply dream your weeks away,
Only to wake up to stacks of newspapers
Several shoved under the door.
Chock full of
Times and places
Classifieds and deaths
Slave names of the equine world,
Catchafallingstar, Papasgotabrandnewbag,
Makemoneymoney, SongoftheSouth.
Oh but it’s Sunday again.
And the sky is grey, but all
I see is a pale purple.
And I don’t leave wherever it is
That I am.
I sit still in amazement of
My stillness.
And I wonder how I got so flawed.
How I grew all of these imperfections
Out of my fingertips
How they sprout out of my head
And how they project out of my core.
And I am in awe at how
I can’t seem to snap out of this
Dream world.
My big sleep.
In which everyday is Sunday.
And I ask for a name.
A race horse name, and
Some work.
But I’m handicap.
I see the world in a shade of purple
And I dream too much.
I could never make it as a race horse.
They’d stick me with a name like,
Goodfornothing, Dumbasadoornail
or Sorryexcuse.
- Collin
