Sunday is a coffee
Sunday is a coffee afternoon
in silent centres
where the revolution rises beneath crispy winter air.
Shadows stretch across desire upon the dreaming of an eye
where by an echo's careless call you can fall.
The color's revel briefly
like a jester's bacchanal
or a Sunday sermon sober for a mortal hangover.
A dancer takes her place among the street's entangled grace
upon the gentle somber waltzing of it all.
Black leather pawns prey on
in the cards of a harlequin's charm as he sings
Can their voices reside at the monument's side
with the clever vigilante and his ever hanging bride.
Does ancient gold splinter
or whither away?
In the important courtroom, can the jury play a game?
Does a sacred truth reside in what a criminal denies
or is the holy ghost only starry-eyed?
Would you smoke a borrowed
cigarette beneath a crucifix
in a taxi where a fallen angel sells you magic?
If a monument were lain before an endless morning plane
would your mystery be satisfied by melancholy rain?
Can you feel the spirit's
passing through your ageless labored limbs?
Did you know the halls are lonesome but the spirits can get in.
With tomorrow to fear and all the yesterday's remaining
still the halls whisper time and again.