Cracked Sunday Morning

Cracked Sunday Morning

 

When the shot rings out, I    believe

it is just my alarm clock’s  mundane

 wail. Then, the tragedy comes   into

focus.   A    newborn   scream echoes

through the arches of the dilapidated

chapel in my guts. Fresh pain blooms

like a garden of ripening   mushroom

clouds. The electrical    tremolo hymn

stutters, chokes, melts like ice in a con-

vection oven. I want to run, top-speed,

to the blaze, and     extinguish the cold

black     flames      before they have con-

sumed my faith completely. But, some-

one craftier than I has stolen   my   legs,

chewed off my hands, and put a bit   my
mouth     while I slept. I watch my hope

turn to      ashes with   teary victim-eyes.

 On this cracked Sunday morning, I have

learned a lot about salvation. No time to

mourn. I’ve got to scalp these tickets   to

Paradise before my neighbors   see     the

tell-tale smoke snaking through my stare.

This business has become toxic.  

Reviews

[Amy Bumpas]

Cracked Sunday turned into chaos to what is suppose to
be a peaceful day.

[Kenneth The Poet]

Led Zeppelin would be jealous of you.

[Jūdan FyreHeart]

I love the dark manipulation at the end. The way you describe it throughout is brilliant, the intensitiy of the images.