Burnt Toast

Sundays are complicated.

He wears his crooked smile everywhere; his dark hair framing his face.

We abandon our breakfast to explore the forests

of a place we once knew:

a backyard somewhere far away

but far too close for comfort.

Scream a little louder, my mind says.

Scream so loud that you cannot comprehend any other noise.

Leave me alone to my thoughts, dear!

Sick and tired of burnt toast.

Why do we let the ashes take what we love most?

We are humans in a fleeting world

full of turmoil

and dust

and silent cries for help.

We are overzealous with opportunity and jealous with animosity.

We are hoarders of our borders and turn away those who need us.

We are selfish creatures, inside and out

and no one can stop us.

Created for peace,

engineered for violence,

we consume those around us

like a Californian wildfire

or a starving child!

Call me when you're finished, darling.

Sundays are complicated.