“It usually happens, on Mondays, the blues, Monday blues” Gun Roswell

Monday blues

Looking out the window
Window, with a big frame
Frame, so large and pointing to the yard
Yard, between the big houses
Houses, which are built so tightly
Tightly, that you can hardly squeeze
Squeeze your tiny self, between the buildings
Buildings which are forever growing taller
Taller, while me, myself, am growing smaller
Smaller, but not that of my dreams
Dreams, of the wide open sea
Sea, with all the shades of blues and greens
Greens, like the forest hardly ever seen
Seen only, in my, eternal dreams
Dreams, so big, it makes me think
Think, if I will ever be able to see
See the true forest of green or even the wide sea
Sea, where the blues are so cool
Cool as the bluest of skies above
Above he wide open calm ocean
Ocean, which will be never ending
Ending only, if I stop, dreaming