"Monday’s March: A Journey Through the Week’s Dawn"

20 May 2024

At the start of a new week, we all feel the fresh air of a new beginning.

Let me take you through my typical Mondays.


Monday’s March Monday morning, the dawn's first light, A gentle whisper, the end of night. The alarm clock rings, a shrill decree, Rousing me from dreams’ embrace, setting me free.

Eyes half-open, a sigh escapes, The blanket’s warmth my heart retraces. But duty calls, the week’s begun, I rise to greet the reluctant sun.

The clock’s hands move, relentless pace, A race against time, this morning’s chase. Coffee brews, its fragrant kiss, A brief solace in the week’s abyss.

Shower’s steam, a waking stream, Washes away the remnants of dream. Dressed and ready, shoes on tight, Into the world, I step with might.

The drive awaits, thirty kilometers long, The road ahead, a Monday song. Traffic hums, a morning chant, Cars like ants in a processionant.

The city stirs, it starts to breathe, Life's rhythm pulsing underneath. Mild traffic, a slow cascade, An urban river, my path is laid.

Trees and buildings blur in view, A panorama, ever new. Billboards flash with fleeting scenes, A city's pulse in morning sheen.

Radio whispers news and tunes, A mix of chatter and morning blues. I navigate the winding way, Thoughts of work, my mind’s ballet.

Office towers reach for skies, Against the dawn, a bold reprise. In their shadows, I park my steed, And join the throng, the worker’s creed.

The elevator’s steady climb, A countdown to the boss’s chime. Fifth floor, the doors part wide, A deep breath in, I step inside.

Morning meeting, the round table's host, Colleagues gather, a corporate toast. Faces greet with weary smiles, The ritual dance in practiced styles.

The boss arrives, with targets set, Weekly goals, a metric bet. Charts and graphs, projections clear, The path ahead, both far and near.

Tasks assigned, the roles are cast, The workweek’s frame, a mold so vast. Deadlines loom, like stormy gales, But we set forth, our ship’s tough sails.

Cubicles, our private nooks, Screens alight with data and looks. Emails flow, a digital stream, In this vast network, we weave our dream.

The clock ticks on, the hours blend, Monday’s trials, there seems no end. But within the grind, a silent force, A purpose drives our daily course.

Lunch break calls, a brief respite, An oasis in the day’s long fight. Conversations, light and free, Moments stolen, just for me.

Afternoon fades, the day’s demands, Unyielding work, with careful hands. Projects build, as time slips by, Beneath the watchful Monday sky.

Evening’s approach, the end in sight, The sun retreats, the coming night. Tasks wrap up, files align, A day well-fought, a brief design.

The drive back home, a mirrored trek, The city’s lights, a jeweled neck. Traffic thins, the night’s embrace, A slower pace, a calmer face.

Home at last, the door swings wide, Shoes come off, my wearied stride. Dinner waits, a family’s cheer, The balm for Monday’s stark frontier.

Night descends, the stars appear, A quiet end, the world draws near. In bed, I lay, the day’s weight gone, Thoughts of Tuesday, the coming dawn.

Yet through it all, this Monday’s toil, A week’s beginning, the fertile soil. In every task, in every mile, There’s purpose found, and reason’s smile.

For Monday’s march, though often tough, Is where we find our mettle’s stuff. A start, a spark, a measured pace, The first step in a weekly race.

And so I sleep, with dreams restored, Prepared to face what lies in store. For Monday’s past, but weeks ahead, I’ll wake again, from Monday’s bed.

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