On Sundays, when the world slows its pace

On Sundays, when the world slows its pace,

A gentle rhythm takes its place.

The air is filled with tranquil delight,

And whispers of poetry come to light.

As sunlight dances through the trees,

I find solace in the gentle breeze.

In the stillness of this sacred day,

I let my heart's verses come out to play.

The morning dew adorns each blade,

Like tears of joy that nature made.

With pen in hand and thoughts set free,

I paint my dreams in poetry.

The church bells toll their melodic chime,

Inviting souls to find divine rhyme.

In sacred verses, I seek solace and grace,

As Sunday becomes my hallowed space.

In the hush of twilight, as day turns to night,

I lose myself in words, taking flight.

The stars above whisper secrets untold,

As my pen weaves stories, bold and bold.

On this day of rest, my heart takes flight,

In the realm of words, my spirit ignites.

Sunday, a sanctuary for the soul,

Where poetry's magic takes its toll.

So, let the verses flow and intertwine,

With each word, a piece of my soul aligns.

On this day of solace, I find my release,

Through poetry's embrace, my inner peace.