Sunday Morning

I've murdered my summer memories 

When days merged

Into hellish Sunday mornings 

Pomade’s slick grip, thick with bacon grease 

Suffocating the senses 

My weekly intrusion 

Yet I faltered in the church 

I knew not of Job or Ezekiel 

And never cared to 

Names but chicken scratch 

Pressed in that same dated blue 

Judging me from behind the pew 

I teetered on consciousness 

Starved by prayers of fiction 

And talks of salvation 

Left to the true doves 

Flying above the sin-soaked earth 

Engulfed in creation 

Devoid of God's hands 

Lying amongst the dandelions 

Dodging the sand spurs 

Observing the dragonflies 

Never once thinking 

Of the man upstairs