With Friday fading into dusk
and Saturday rising soft with trust,
the clatter of chores begins to die,
and life lets out a weary sigh.
In quiet corners, I seek me
I whisper through the hush and plea,
“Hey Sandy… are you there, still free?”
I speak to myself, to just be me.
And as life unfolds its ceaseless spin,
I wonder—can we carve within
a day that’s not for rush or race,
but stillness wrapped in warm embrace?
Oh yes, a Sunday—how we crave
a gentle tide, a soul to save,
a space where thought no longer bites,
where hearts don’t bleed, and minds take flight.
A day to soothe the aching strain,
to mend the wound, release the pain,
to flirt with skies of smoke and wine,
and dream through hours lost in time—all on a Sunday morning.
No battles fought, no tears to feign,
just me and soul, no need explain.
We speak in silence, stare the vast,
trace stars through thoughts too deep to pass.
The sun, the sand, a sacred sound—the universe within, unbound—all on a Sunday morning
Let there be no dusk or dawn,
just velvet dark and peachy calm.
Moments freeze, then drift away,
and time itself forgets to stay.
Eternity pauses, breath held tight,
as cosmos sways in mystic light—its rhythm echoing the sky,
all on a Sunday morning.
From specks of hope, a life takes flight,
emerges bold from endless night
The universe rewrites its lore
what once was lost is found once more.
A chronicle of death and breath,
of quiet triumphs, silent deaths.
No clocks to count, no wounds to weigh
—just grace that guides the soul’s own way
—all on a Sunday morning.