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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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