In my
thoughts
every poem
I write is for my mother
who does
not read
who did not
read
who will
never read
not even my
letters.
What I
write,
is my love.
Its fragile
but not for her.
What I
write,
is the
perfect nothingness.
If you stop
breathing
you will
have lost.
I swim in
my anger.
I swim in a
glowing fire,
it is
energy,
the source
of which I do not know.
It is
pushing me forward.
To where?
In my
thoughts
I meet the
mates of my soul.
All of them
have familiar faces.
I do not
know them,
I do not
know them after all.
After all
that longing
I do not
know them.
Mindfully I
do not look at them.
My mirrored
image in the desert
shimmers,
like an old movie in black and white.
The path of
possibilities ends
right here,
right now
never
in total nothingness
and I keep
the open questions in my arms
as if they
were crying babies.
I can not
do this without anger,
but I can
do it without judging.
So much is
possible.
If I sit
with them long enough
I am sure
there will still be no answer
but maybe
there will be me
not asking any more.
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