I remember how you’d say
We should spend time not money

But I spent my money on time
And not even my gold encrusted piece
Could freeze the moment you were mine

I can’t tell the difference,
Is it my watch ticking,
Heart beating or the metronome?
Is it the smoke or the pheromones?

You can’t remember the moans
But you remember how the liquor tricked you,
Made her loose
Made you lick her

And you found the gold mine at the meeting of her thighs,
It wasn’t only on her wrist and in her eyes

I’m not one to pray
But my knees got ******
From worshiping a Sunday kind of love

In the name of father time,
You - the sun
And my holy spirit

And I guess it’s true what they say
That nothing good happens after 2 AM

Then again, there was you
And then those 2 PM Monday blues

And it’s ironic how time heals all wounds,
but no drug, god or serum can save us from
tempus edax rerum

she sat there
with the disk whirring
in her laptop's DVD player.
the movie wouldn't play
because of some internal flaw
and she stared blankly
at the computer screen.
her bowl full
of potato salad
on the desk next to her frozen body.
her chest rising and falling
unsteadily
her eyes glassy
zoned out
to another place.

the pills she's supposed to take
to keep herself healthy
sit on the desk next to her bowl
of unfinished potato salad.

sunday sun has healing powers
it tilts your mind just that little bit higher
warms the soul and relaxes the heart
rest
yes
rest in the light.

@journeyofdays

lost sunday
i travelled light on cemetery rd.
flinching at every sound
of the whistling oaks
coming after me

i was sick but i didn't know
hushed by the fire
on the horizon
and the footsteps at my back
through crystal snow

believe me, i was sick
i was a drunken punk
in the soy fields
sleeping giant  
in a ring of salt

I smell the earth coming back to life
Breathing in the cool air cleanses my soul
I feel whole
I pick up a flower from the ground
I breath in the sweet scent
Listening to love songs
On the audio
A perfect Sunday stroll

the corner shop near the railway station
opens now unlike when we came here first
when everything would shut on Sunday

the flea market in Mauerpark
is over-ridden with people selling kitsch
but we always go and we love it

everyone is so cool here that I think being cool
isn't hip anymore,
the street is a sea of hipsters in black

it's early Spring and there is still
no ferries on the Spree
but if you walk down the right street

you'll catch a couple of musicians
maybe a juggling act  
that blend in with graffiti and art

in the evening we'll go to the TV Tower
like tourists
pretend we can afford dinner in the revolving restaurant

two hundred and three metres high
and look over the cars on the road to Berlin-Mitte
that look like graceful glowing bugs below

we'll get have a cocktail with dinner in Caramba
in the square (just one)
and listen to light German jazz

with no need to worry
if the transport still runs at night

church sunday morning
i met a guy like him
i said that he was beautiful
he told me to go to hell

and i sat down on my seat
a hundred hymns in my hand
oh i thought he was a god
but he was dying like a man

and the priest blessed us all
but i don’t need to be blessed
if only he was there
i wouldn’t be so obsessed

and we sung for the lord
our words turned into gold
religion is a masterpiece
it saves our souls

and when the ritual was done
i quitely went home
to talk about faith and belief
to him i worship the most

and on the way home to him
i couldn’t wait to arrive
and i prayed to god for him to still
be alive

but when i saw him laying there
bleeding on the floor
i just knew that god was dead
it didn’t matter anymore