Ode to Monday
Oh Monday, your forsaken birth. How I dread your bloodlust for productivity.
The dawn has broken earlier than normal, cleaving another hour from my shriveling soul. Yet I submit, with little protest. I have become a creature, a slave to the perpetual wheel. The drum beats in the distance. I sharpen my bayonet, embrace a memory of yesterday, and march, horn a bleeting toward the blood stained fields.
Come at me Monday, Come at me!