Friday's here.

Friday's here.

This day, so familiar by now. Death in waiting, darkness as the days gone by.
There have been smatterings of light here, and there;
and now, on yet another Friday, we wait for something more.
For true solace, fulfilled hope we've oft' been called to want before.
Anticipation yanks us from our homes, draws our eyes upward, and out,
to horizons
along our spinning bit of earth, to sun-rises
and sunsets
and belief in the end of our Fridays.

Can we dare to face this dying? What loss have we felt, what marring?
Which ache leads us, holds us to the ground? This fear, which stands us up
and sits us down, is merely
Friday.

Tombs do close on Friday;
and blood drips upon the ground;
and sweat, from holy and, alike, unholy brows,
does salt our faces
parch our mouths,
and we, unquenchable, thirst.

Because it is only Friday.