Thank God It's Friday

I dream the week in shades of sledge hammer
in hues of concrete cracked and shattered.
I dream each day in shards of glass stammering
out all of these things that never mattered.
Months become glorious battles and years
become endless wars with faceless enemies.
Moments become bullets without any gun but fear
and I wonder if I should wander through my destinies
mouth agape or eyes closed. These are the sacred rites
celebrated minute by minute in every broken heart
the religion of passions and needs and soft nights -
time celebrated for kind instruction served in part
by callous destruction. The breaking down of man
to bones, to dust to the smaller things we understand.