Sunday Night - Someday Might

Feeling the abyss of the Son
realizing the error in my misguided sight
fleeting past seconds of a race that can’t be won
seeing that the ‘reality’ sheds more darkness than the light
swallowing glass-full’s of bitter tears
of anger
rage
confusion
and malignant fears
swimming amiss the ominous words that brought me here
this Sunday Night
which Some day might
Shine as bright as the blinding cries of my former (inner) child
and all the while
trying to tame emotions that emerge as twisted and wild
Why do I cry
on this Sunday Night
that Someday might
feel sympathy for the pitiful excuse that I am
riddled and reduced in the palm of a hand
and I can’t seem to stand with arms open
hoping that
these feelings Someday might
on Sunday Night
take up flight
and leave me, the forgotten spawn of short-falls
and mistakes that you just can’t help but regret
as you spit at the Son
wondering why he cursed you with his life
have I become the seed of misdeed
and a leach with knees
that kneels and pleads
but seeks to see you bleed
and lick your wounds
crouching down into them
cocooning myself in blood and sweat
and treating it as my wombs

Oh Why?
Why does this Son
Why does this Sunday Night
never hope that Someday might
be less tragic than today
I await the Son’s daylight
that never comes, but
Some day might
be Sunday Night’s
White shining light
that lightens the burdens of ‘right’
but what if
what if on this Sunday Night
[Someday might]
the Son just might refuse to shine