I write to you in songs that come from the migratory birds that flock

The skies and swing by the river beside my stick house in search of shelter.

I am a stickman. And I write from uncertain times, a distant future, sped up

As the sun goes down when it's dusk, with the blood of the moon shining crimson red

And the night sky upon us.

I pen misery with dark black ink that I draw from a hole inside of my chest

And as you can see, I am slowly nearing an ink crisis.

A void of words, as you continue to replace them with colors,

A stickman's job is to stare at the sky and heave breaths of disdain and curse

At the world, the wind, and everything that goes by

But it's different for me now. The world is ending soon.

I would like to be of some help to you. Protect what we share –

Every name we give it, and all the reasons why

Before the ground I place my weight on catches fire

Like a sapling full of life, nourish it with soil and water.

Paint my hands with dirt, mud, and care.

I would like to spiral with you into the cursed depths of this hollow earth

And fly my way back to you, wherever you are.

Whether it be a five-minute walk or two continents apart –

From where the migratory birds emerge,

From where their wings take first flight,
I would like to fly back to you

And never leave home again.

Fahad likes frogs. Reach out to him at amfahad1747@gmail.com