My Monday Metrical Musings #4

Each Sunday

He doesn’t live alone
Tho’ he might as well be
Each Sunday

For
Then they leave
And he can’t help but to seethe
His silent rage rolls
Like a perfect storm that unfolds
Unleashing torrents of tears like rain
Drowning everything in its wake

But he holds
Only scowls
Cos he’s old
Or so he’s told

Then he unclenches
His dentures
And ventures
Into scriptures

Til they return home

Each Sunday
And he no longer lives alone.