Truth is bitter
Lies are sweet
Eat your words
Rinse, wash, repeat

But think sweet poisons
And bitter cures
I know my choice
What is yours?

h.f.m.

Shall I speak of Icarus?
Golden dreamer-boy, head in the clouds
"The greatest have the farthest to fall"
Isn't that what they say?
And he was great, my friend
He laughed in exultant triumph above the sea
Even as he fell towards the grasping waves

Shall I tell of Atlas?
Strong, lonely man, cursed to bear the world on his shoulders
He would like nothing more than to escape his burden
And strip the breath from his captors, while he's at it
But those wishes are only daydreams
The sky presses down on him relentlessly
Sometimes nearly driving him to his knees

Shall I talk of Dionysus?
The partying drunkard, master of madness
Born of grief and rage and loss
Gifted divinity for his wine
Whether it was a blessing or a curse in the end, I cannot say
He drinks to forget, he parties to numb the pain
Insane with sorrow and anger and power not meant for mortal minds

h.f.m.

Life is an awesome/awful/awe-inspiring gift
Given freely, without conditions
A pulse is translated as spinning stars/singing starlings/stilling stardust
Blood of a universe under thin skin
Floating/Falling/Flying, we rise
To the constellations from whence we came
Freed from mortal shell/ringing bell/living hell
We are home

h.f.m.

To be born powerful...
It is a terrible thing
An awful gift, to destroy with mere words
A tragic skill, to subtly undermine
(and smile)
To wear away at a foundation
With the structure still intact
And then remove the cornerstone
(Watch it crumble before your eyes, all at once)
You have done none of this
But to know that you can...
You are terrified of yourself
And there is no controlling you

h.f.m.

Something cold has entered me
Icy fire between by shoulder blades
Misting breath and stealing color
My chest contains a barren winter
My gut, a desolate tundra
My soul has iced over
There is no warmth left in me

h.f.m.

when your two options are
the impossible
or
the unthinkable
what can you choose,
without scarring all who have become ensnared?
a catch-22
it would almost be funny
if it weren't
so
****
sad

h.f.m.

Tracing the concrete-cracks in the overgrown lot
You'd think it is a perfect metaphor
A strong foundation, forgotten and worn
Left to the weeds and the tender-violent care of time
A body turned inside-out and unravaled
A slow, gentle unbecoming
The ever-eventual death of a world

h.f.m.

I am too young
Again
Using pictures to define
Myself, describe
Myself, explain
Myself, these words
Can no longer contain
Me, restrain
Me, sustain
Me, remain
In me, I revert back
To the languages of my childhood
(Infancy?)
Images, sounds, emotions, motions
Anything other than these coarse
Words, these ugly
Words, these inglorious
Words, that rend
My too-soft skin
Words that break
My fire-feather bones
"Speak" is synonymous with "Destroy"
And so the word
Is the most lethal weapon of all
I will keep my silence and do no more harm

h.f.m.

Some are tethered by pride
A few are roped by fear
Others are collared by lies
But each and every noose
No matter the hand that tied the knot
Is bound to the killing ground

Marked by faith and murdered in hate
Herded like sheep then butchered like cattle
In the end almost nothing is left
Just silence and the consequences of silence

And when saviors finally turn their steps to the mass graves
The legions refuse to lose, refuse to let their captives live free
Death quickens and the doomed have not even the chance to fight
Before they succumb

"We are human!"
They're scared we won't hear them.
They scream louder.
"We are not more or less than anyone else!"
Their words are a Maginot line, a futile defense
They stare their end in the face
Why had no one come to save them?
Before it was too late?
Too late... too late... too late...

h.f.m.