Sunday by Nicholas Thacker

It was complete silence.
As those who uphold a culture
formed on the basis of traditional values
filed into coffee shops one by one.
This would be the only day so many have for themselves,
but how many have come here in discontent?
For they know tomorrow
is the beginning that their lives will end once again.
They have went to church,
to feel the presence of illusionary bliss.
And now, as they sit within their solitude
the fear of others confines them to themselves.
But, if they have come with another
they remain hidden behind their barricades
as the fear of others continues to build,
our eyes will never connect,
for we are sitting within our confines.
We can only hear from a distance
those who speak of business,
those who speak of god,
and those who spew the political trickery
of an ideology that upholds an oppressive nature.
They all sit with words that flow like venom to who ever may listen,
as their anger flows through rivers of life's discontent,
the illusion of what has led them to their current state of being they cannot grasp.
It is almost as though on the last day,
the only day where most cannot worry,
their angry continues to flow like the coffee that has turned cold,
to now be bitterly consumed by the desperate who search
for a way out of their sorrow.
they are sitting alone although they are with others
on their only day in solitude.