Prisoner of Time

This poem is on my love for Sunday, as a person I am lazy, a born supporter of Garfield....mu ah, love him dearly for what he is...and love lasagna too...

My mornings do not mean
the sunrise on earth,
your face is my hope of light,
for I go through six days of darkness
and the seventh day blesses me with your sight.
this one day
I am no more a prisoner,
nor am I an unnoticed sign,
for in your presence,
I feel my existence,
but,
alas! from the next day
I am again the prisoner of time.

And then
sorrow creeps in my heart,
pain pops up its cruel head,
darkness all around,
no matter where ever I turn;
fine lines appear
as tension draws its lines,
and I wait eagerly for you
with every seconds and every
count of time.

The day before your arrival,
time passes slowly than usual,
the longing, the passion, the wait
seems like ages,
and I grow so restless
the hour glass seems to be stagnant,
and I crave for you
and your bright smile.

And then the seventh day come,
with all pomp and show
making a grand entrance,
the church bell rings at early dawn,
the chorus sings,
swallows twitter
and the love wind blows,
and I open my eyes
with hopes and desires
and longings of the days gone by,
for it is time
when your arrival is to be.
but
alas! time is always futile,
the day passes by
and again I fall prey
to the grips of time.