Face of a man and woman.
Photography by Fillipe Gomes

There are so many insufficient ways of describing fire.

Fire is what quakes in your heart when you feel you
are about to fail your generation. Those thumping,
furious and measured beats, signalling the drone of
mishaps you are about to drown yourself in.

Fire is the bolstered hopes you see every day on the
timeline when you doom-scroll on social media.
They are the images of skins submerging to draw
bone lines in the body of a child riddled with poverty.
They are the skulls crashed, shots fired, bodies falling,
blood streaming in the battles against oppression.

Fire is the collection of emotions I can't yet put in
words, touching me in places I myself cannot touch.

Fire doesn't burn flesh - not really. what burns are
coats of dreams clothing your existence, shrouding
your ambitions, piercing all that you thought safe. it
embodies flashes of fury, of searing velocity, of Satan
descending in garments of fire but without a face.

This city burns, and the fury of my mother rolls
effortlessly from my mouth. Cinders burn in tight
multi-circles of pent-up hopes and frayed rays of
tired optimisms.

The towns I call country
smell of gasoline and protests, seeking change
and salvation. And I lie in this body of mine, eyes
bulging, staring at strings of napalm fired from
burnt consciences, ready to burn
us all.

I'm a mad creative on the loose, interested in laws, media and communications, journalism and anything that knowledge could be found in. I view the world as a conglomerate of crumbling realities and is enamoured in how poetry embodies the hope of our collective humanity.

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