Changeling

Woke up with a purpose

Weather matched my mood

Perfect day for a poem

Was all I could conclude

It's title came so easily

'Serving Sunday' rang loud and true

A description on a platter

Hopefully devoured by you

The who, what, when and where

My Sunday hours in verse

Every line, thought, desire and whim

In which I did immerse

Initially written out in draft

'Serving Sunday' came alive

But just before the final save

My day then ceased to strive

Did I jinx it, hex it, spoil it

Celebrating before the win

Took it all for truly granted

Without traversing thick and thin

Seemed like 'Serving Sunday' 

Wasn't giving in without a fight

No slowly drifting quietly away

Till moon dragged in the night

Pity 'Serving Sunday'

Didn't turn out like she might

But twisted in to a changeling 

With teeth sharpening her bite 

So now I stand here looking back

How the day simply escaped

Morphed in to, I don't know

But not Sunday-serving-shaped