Sunday
To the sound of
cigarette smoke
and ice cubes
melting
sweet flavor of
thin air and time
deliberately
wasted
the sweet
caress of
thoughts
of words
and sentences
as they appear
on this very
piece of
paper
overpowers
bile bitter taste
of memory
Drinking my
soletary
fill
emptying
bottles
my wallet
my head
and heart
watching flies
fcuk
on my table
sunshine through
leaves
palm trees
growing
and lives
shortening
It's Sunday.
poem by Carsten Thomsen
Added by Poetry Lover
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