Slowly, as the sun shies from the sky and the clock strikes six,

The Monday blues hit hard.

You decide to wander one last time.

Mindlessly strolling where the day bleeds into twilight,

You boldly wish for a pause button on the universe,

A world where the sun neither sets nor rises, suspended in amber.

Instead, you watch the moon.

It is a faithful, silent anchor in the fading blue,

Guiding your heavy steps back toward the front door.

But the pale, dim lights at home do not soothe this Sunday mood; they only expose it.

Cooking is no longer a plan, but a quiet interlude.

Who actually enjoys these stolen, final hours of the weekend?

Perhaps only a Pastor, resting after the sermon,

While the rest of us quietly mourn the dawn.