Sunday Mourning

I'm fighting the current of my sheets and this beds just begging me to leave. I whisper to an ear on sunday morning, "I've sinned. Cleanse me of my mourning." Bashful yet brave. To this day I still claim to be locked in an empty room where blankets become my grave. I whisper to an ear on sunday morning, "I've sinned. Cleanse me of my mourning." I drive myself crazy knowing that I'm crazy. And I know that I've wronged. And I know I don't belong with a blindfold so perennial in a world where all is visual. At least I have my tongue.