Today's prompt is to write a poem out of twenty questions, however random you like, with the last line not being one. Try as I might, I can't get anything substantial out of it. And besides, I'm too beat by Monday blues to try more. So I'll just write about that:
Monday
Monday comes on
like a lump in the throat.
A mountain at morning,
molehill at night.
Its monotonous maw
opening in a yawn
to swallow life
whole.
Heart is a head
still slumped
on Sunday's shoulders,
unwilling to rise.
Monday, on your marks, get set: No.
The whole week ahead
a marathon
I'm not yet prepared
to run.
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