sunday nights are my own.

old music in the corners of my mind

pen scratches on paper, ten thousand poems

two hundred and seventy-two

little golden lights, 4 walls

that mirror my soul.

At the hurl of a storm, the tree collapses.

Stagnant from then on, broken. Such an easy thing to be.

In the unpredicted wind, it sways

back and forth on its trunk, tendons straining

in the months of darkness and cold, i never stopped writing.

i just kept it all to myself. every night, my own religion

pages of pen poised on paper, pouring my heart out