I think, mother had a good plan of
giving us the warm honey milk after morning prayer
2 hours before we would start the day
the warm milk in my mouth
and her gentle hand holding my neck
over the years
that milk turned into poison
mother’s touch cut
filled with anger
the lust for being in her waters
turned into aggressive crawls in public pools
over the years
life has taken over
everything I read is poetry
the dreadful news
articles with self-optimizing tips
the strict rules of Germany written all over the city
the winter wrinkles on the leaves of my plant
the longing look in your eyes in the last picture you sent
everything has become poetry.
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