does it mean something
if my lungs catch on fire
whenever i see you?

h.f.m.

Sahara cradles
the sun-bleached bones of a temple,
still strewn where the blazing heat
washed over it in trembling waves,
draining it of colour and shape,
reducing it to the gnawed on toys
of Sahara's chittering children.

She sighs
as the wind caresses
the curves of her back.
She shifts, slow,
and time covers
the shadow of the holy,
granting it final rest
in a dusty grave
under the watchful silver eye
rising in the heavens.

Sahara cradles
her new ward
to her chest
as the night comes awake.

h.f.m.

We are not the voices of nations,
but of people. Our people.
The people of uncensored thought
and true word and strong speech.
The candid lines from our pens
are the last line of defence between
our hopelessly self-destructive people
and themselves. Our people, the poets;
the dreamers and idealists and romantics.
The people who press on through hardship
and disappointment and pain and heartbreak
and discrimination and depression and controversy.
The guiding light from the shadows.
The bucket to the well, and the rope
to bring the water to the thirsty masses.
We are the people of poems,
the people of dreams,
the people of song.
We are the people
of past, present, and future.
We,
The People,
The Poets.

h.f.m.

Armed with vocal thoughts,
"I" speaks to "You;"
"I" being myself, a rebel-revolutionary,
and "You" being a like-minded individual.
This is a call to arms, my brethren of the pen,
a call to non-violent, passive-aggressive action.
As poets, as shapers of culture,
as heathen warriors of ink and paper,
we are, by unwritten definition, radicals.
We are master isolationists, visionaries,
unwitting weavers of the immense tapestry of time.
Each word, each thought, each image that is
translated from mind to word and deed,
is an instance of your exemplary credentials
in the world of genuine thoughtfulness
and uncomfortably candid philosophy.
"I," as a symbol of myself,
encourages "You," a like-minded individual,
to pick up your threads of thought and
tie comforting commonality into knots
of free thought and controversial honesty
that takes effort to unravel and understand.
"I," a wildfire, challenges "You," standing trees,
to wield your casually intense influence
towards the betterment of our scattered communities.
Draw on historical records,
on embarrassingly personal experience,
on relatable and unrelatable tails
of second-hand hearsay.
Draw on the words of our predecessors,
the ones who waxed lyrical
and the ones who rambled on a tangent.
Draw on the empathetic, mental-link
between "I" and "You" and "Everybody Else."
Take the whole of creation in your hands,
twist and mold it into a new shape,
then plant it in the ground to grow anew.
The words of "I" and the words of "You"
are a seismic catalyst.
All we have to do is trust,
trust in the thought of "You" and
trust in the thought of "I,"
and the poetry in the pages of your notebooks
will take their first, living breath.

h.f.m.