I do not speak in the morning
Born in the afternoon
my first hours are loaded
with gravity, thunder
and light flashing cloud.
I miss the cosy waters.
I am tired by morning
tired of being bound
by the white heights of the world
its deep green walls
acidic angelic tunnels
I swim upon
my fatty sweet drool
my last look at god.
It’s the noise of the world
leaning into my lungs
into red morning
the exhausted hand of sunlight
I never get used to.
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