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On Monday I Forgot


Lust by any other name
is still lust.

I lusted for a job today,
so I applied for four
jobs that didn’t make
any sense.

I lusted for lunch today,
frustrated because the
jobs aren’t me. I ate
two skinny sandwiches
on rye.

I lusted for the time I
wasted. It wasn’t to be.
Lunch moved on to dinner.

It is dinner in three
minutes. Ramen noodle
soup for me tonight.
NCIS rerun over in ten
minutes.

I lusted to write; I
lusted to move past now,

right now.

Lust tossed and turned
everything at me today.
Failure grinned. Fear
smiled coyly. I ran.

I wanted. Will this end?
I wanted, so wanted

to win
to walk
to work
to eat

and much much more,

to feel
to find
to be found
to be profound

but there wasn’t
a sound except for
lust unsatiated, that
place where quiet meets
loud producing no sound.

Just anguish.

My prayer was not in
vain but there was so
much pain.

Why am I blogging so
late? I went to walk
before dark. Old ankle
injury. Ribs hurt from
when I did plumbing
repairs on Friday.

Circled back to the
mail boxes then home.

(Ramen noodles still
too hot; and my tea
was getting cold.)

Instant gratification
is empty on all counts.
Lust always fails in
any form. Even if you
get what you lust for
right now it is empty
and wants more,

right now!

NCIS team under
AK-47 fire. They won,
of course. It satisfied
my TV lust, but empty
can’t fill empty.

Just this second,
I remembered that
Sunday was Easter.

On Monday I forgot
that the pain of Friday
was followed by the
promise of Sunday.

I’m blogging late to
trade empty for empty,
to fill the void. Fun, but
not adequate.

The sneers and snickers
of the day fled, for the
tomb was empty just
like He said.

On Monday I forgot,
Monday couldn’t destroy
what Sunday had done.

Categories: Poetry

Tagged as:

alslaff

Poet, Writer, US Army (Retired)

I dreamed of writing when I was a youngster. The love of books and writing may have helped to dull the pain of severe sexual abuse as I was sexually abused by two men at my father’s place of work from age 8 to 12 or so. I learned about this for the first time when I was 50 years old. So, as a boy, reading was the only place I had to go to. My fantasy world was better and safer than my real world. I loved reading and writing.
Reading books and writing poetry are a joy to me still and are an important part of my life. (See my About Me page on my blog for the complete profile.)

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