Weekend Claws

The strange lad confronts his own hollow reflection amidst emerging hope.

Her warm Monday greetings, her true laughs,
as always, chase my doubtful weekend claws.
Her wraps, those warm fresh bread,
bakes hope in my flowery head.
The past’s map, a faded smear,
This body I own, the skin I wear,
The Wednesday face Bude has known,
A brighter self in me is sown.

In the glass, though, a stranger stares
Through Friday eyes that plant snares.
A hollow man in unfit clothes,
The untold Saturday rust, the tear that flows
And pulls me back to the street’s cold,
A story marred, with scenes untold.
This bright Sunday is just a lie,
Another ghostly night I must get by.