Back in time ?

It is Sunday but you have no clue.
Crumpled bedsheets,
Hair strands on the floor
Ruined and detached
like the ramblings in your head from the entire world.
You have been here before.
No matter how many times they tell you
It is a cemetery
You don’t visit one that late
Not illegal yet forbidden
Like sex before marriage
Often though, they misperceive
Abstinence is not celibacy

It is Sunday and you have no clue
There is no  s p a c e
for this proletariat information.
Your aristocratic conscience
optimizes for double think, doubt and disgrace
running back to where you came from-
all of it merely in your head.
Why can’t you move apace
The rest of them do.
You are a stop motion in a world of time-lapse
No. You are the replay. Or the rewind.
Circles, ellipses. Loops without points.
Over and over again.

It is Sunday but you have no clue
A Buddha shoves his face in the palms of his hands on your side table
You turn away, anticlockwise
Crumpling the bed sheet
It rises where your body gives it  s p a c e
And compresses under your heavy chest as you lay downside up
If only you knew delaying the future
Doesn’t end up in the past
Maybe you’d gather your broken hair,
make a knot and throw it away.