Sundays toll peeled eyes and doves, I harked for the Nazarene as my shoulder war was lost and I collided with my Demons. Ignorance is Man's Babylon. He chalks around the dead empowering his weakness kissing his fragrant corpse. Find love in my frown lines. With pursed tender scarlet and leave upon me your map so I can lose myself, finding you. Inferno clock strikes its hands on me and I am gold by days end, changing with sky blending into night, on catacombs of satin where you lay no more. It's Sundays I feel her most, the coffee ring by a crossword and the way a pen looked in her mouth as she concentrated. It's Sundays I dread the most, her puncturing kiss to my cheek her cold feet searching for flesh now replaced by nothing who sleeps for yesterdays. I am walking to our place, to lay in combs of corn, to stare in your thousand eyes and hope to see one fall so I can close mine and see you again… in dreams.