(Updated) Thursday

Thursday:  You promise peace to come yet,

Your promise is too future to console,

And your present presents no comfort but,

Weariness and longing for that parole,

Which wanes too distant still

Like the mirage in a desert will,

Serve only to remind the parched man of his thirst,

So you remind me that I am cursed,

To wander again this workday wasteland weary,

Before I drink my fill of Saturday.

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