Saturdays of mine begin in flows of words
To welcome always wasted weekends
They lead me nowhere
Never once wherever I may stand
But keep on talking certainly to me
Pretending I am here
As I cannot escape from me
Not a single Saturday
They come to me in hiccup breaths
With songs in playback and forth
That say the thing that music says
When left alone with sighs of words
They do myself unlikely good
But keep on talking stubbornly to me
Until the life and body of mine
Wearily collapse asleep
Even now on Saturday
Dreams that I may have then
Never stick to morning memories
Much as I collect a life from calendars
With dates recalling I could love
They keep on ticking vain reminders
Todos and duties tidying souvenirs
In case the time of old was lost
While attempting sacred rest
Yesterday on Saturday
It could be that I didn’t even sleep
What are the clues and evidence
Proving obvious facts of sleep in any way?
From times we lived as kids at night
The sheets were wet from phantom fears
So are they later out of labour teasing joys
Or maybe accidental dreams
But not a drop of dried up tears on pillows
Can help to tell in earnest now
The Saturdays from sadder days
Come the usual Monday monkey meetings
Did you have the nicest weekend my friend?
I would guess the next to come is always better
I reply in words that talk a bit in sheer omission
Of truth that’s blessed in bouts of shy emotion
They’ll never know and even less
Can ever figure out the reason why
I just waste that time of scheduled joy
Perfuming twice the Sunday best of outfit
Ahead of every tête-à-tête with Saturdays