mondays rob us of our priorities,
until sweat devours our skin,
our unwashed tongue wet with lust,
the kitchen reeks of loneliness,
the sofas file for divorce,
naked we live, fuelling our desires and living on the satisfaction of quenched lust,
our breath, ragged
moans, gasps and uneven tranquillity,
until sundays,
where I have to pick between fate and faith.
can we not ignore options and live without variables?
she leaves, crosses and candles, littering her path with cologne of wasted days,
until monday comes, stealing our priorities.
Festus Obehi Destiny.
I hate it when sunday comes
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