Sunday Aches

Before the rising sun when Sunday aches. Comes bright sword and youthful king no more. And the the weight of each new day upon which pays. On feilds of sorrow ringed sweet lavender, does lily even know. The issues made of nothing such. Force monarchs march from end to end to watch it grow. Night yeilds much needed victory beneeth a pale full moon. Redness full upon the shield when force applied is placed. From the rear the enemy, the spear the tip is pierced. When thrown the spear of mighty queens she sings his song. Must it shake and tremble thus the likes of never more? The blade in reach for each tommorrow proves more fatal than the next. We give each bride away without a moments thought. The cloud of holocaust and Sunday aches the sky is blotched. Each one rides a different horse none saddled like the rest. My sister knits the net is full of death. My wife can only watch as all the fish like ours floats out.