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Once, a man walked. A road unmarked, a journey unnamed. Long at the start, short at the end— like all things worth dreading.He met a child, all laughter and light, running through days that never thought to end. "Come play!" the child cried, and he did, until he blinked— and the child was gone.He met a boy, eyes full of knowing, books stacked high, futures drawn in ink. "Come learn!" the boy said, and he did, until the words blurred— and the boy was gone.He met a young man, restless with love, pulling petals from the stem of his heart. "Come love!" the man begged, and he did, until love became waiting— and the man was gone.He met a father, hands worn, eyes heavy, measuring time in sighs and schedules. "Come be busy!" the father called, and he was, until busy became burden— and the father was gone.He met an old man, waiting at the end, with silver hair and a smile that knew better. "Come remember," the old man said, and he did— and there they were.The child, the boy, the lover, the father. No one was lost. No one ever is. They had only been walking ahead.FSF

The traveler

I lit a match, they called it grace, The moths arrived with whispered pleas,&nbsp; Their hunger wore a tender face.&nbsp; I fed them light, I bent my knees, A wick that flickered, slow to learn,&nbsp; They took, they swarmed, they called it ease.&nbsp; A warmth too constant starts to burn,&nbsp; Yet frost invites the bitter fist,&nbsp; To yield is ash, to guard is spurn.&nbsp; They call me cruel when I resist,&nbsp; Yet scorned me soft, a hollow shell,&nbsp; A kindness blind is kindness missed.&nbsp; They drank me dry, they wished me well,&nbsp; A monument of smoke and bone,&nbsp; Then cursed the drought, the empty well.&nbsp; To give is loss—to spark, or turn to stone A caged song or crumbled throne?&nbsp;

The Smell of Burning Wings

i was strong once, full of gruff and bravado,&nbsp; who walked through the world like it was something to be tamed. but now— i hobble, just hobble,&nbsp; crashed, stitched and patched,&nbsp; the ghost of a dozen surgeons haunting my bones. still, i walk. just walk and walk,&nbsp; cane tapping the path, breath steady, convincing myself I'm still a man, ignorant of society in so many ways. —impact,&nbsp; sudden like a car crash. brutally unexpected. youth, fast and careless, legs that had never begged for mercy, arms that had never clung to railings just to stay upright.&nbsp; bumps me hard—&nbsp; me, a jenga tower of misplaced macho. the ground is colder than i expected. one turns back, "get off the running track, you fucking cripple!" and then he is gone, legs still carrying him forward, never backward. i lay there, cheek pressed to the dirt, feeling something i had never felt before: small. vulnerable. breakable. like a man seeing the world from the wrong side of the boots. it looks different from here, i never had to notice before. i knew the fear of many for the first time.&nbsp; no longer just intellectual empathyFSF

The track

Even as an eleven-year-old shame burned in me as I watched. The television flickered in the summer heat, "The old man" grunted from his armchair, shaking his head. Mum, indifferent to all things cricket, Paused in the kitchen just long enough to mutter, "Well, that’s not very sporting, is it?"The score read six needed from one. The game teetered, fragile as a porcelain teacup; The kind Mark Burgess would later launch at a dressing room wall. Greg Chappell, sunburned and spent, Turned to his brother Trevor with the casual cruelty Of an older sibling about to prove a point."How’s your underarm?" "No, Greg, no, you can't do that!" Ian Chappell, aghast in the commentary box, Like a priest witnessing blasphemy at the altar. Rod Marsh, behind the stumps, pleading, "Don’t do it, mate!"; A man begging the tide to turn back.And yet, down it rolled, slow as a funeral procession, A cricket ball stripped of its dignity, Rolling feebly toward Brian McKechnie, Who stared at it as one might stare At an unexpected turd in a swimming pool. Bat dropped. Arms out. A curse swallowed whole.The world gasped as Richie Benaud Gave his verdict with the surgical precision of a coroner: "Disgraceful. One of the worst things I have ever seen." And then, silence; The awful silence of a crowd realizing They have witnessed something That will never be forgotten.A little girl tugged at Greg’s sleeve, Her voice small but true: "You cheated." And in that moment, the mighty Australian captain Was reduced to a schoolboy Caught copying in a math test.In the New Zealand dressing room, Rage simmered beneath quiet disgust, Until a teacup shattered against the wall— A punctuation mark of fury, A ceramic obituary for the spirit of the game.Meanwhile, across the Tasman, Piggy Muldoon, wry and righteous, Declares it fitting the Australians wore yellow. A nation, red-faced with anger, Murmurs a new cricketing phrase: "Hitler was a bastard, but he never bowled underarm."Back in the backyard, Beneath the scorching Aussie sun, We replayed the moment in mockery. The underarm delivery, now folklore, A crime so shameful, even kids understood. The Kiwi kids would yell out; "Stop cheating Aussies" We'd laugh, but somewhere deep down, We knew this time, they weren’t wrong. Even the dog looked disappointed.FSF

Mark Burgess's tea cup

I have stumbled.Contorted into shapes I thought would be loved.Tried to be the echo instead of the voice,softened my roar to a whisperthat even I could not hear. No more. You were not born to be liked.Not sculpted from wet clay, pressed into safe hands.You were forged—a blade, bright on the anvil of your own defiance.Etch your name with a stiletto tempered in conviction,not a feather quill dipped in borrowed ink. If you shrink, you vanish.If you blend, you blur. How will those seeking firefind only the cold ash of your pretending? Some watch.Some do.Some wear masks—and some rip them free. It is not that watchers cannot become doers,nor that the masked cannot unmask—but you were never meant to be part of the chorus,you were the single note that shatters the glass. Stop trying to be silencein a room waiting for your thunder. Let them call you too much.Let them shield their eyes from your glare.Better to be the wildfirethan the flicker begging for wind. Face the mirror.Beyond the reflection, see the lion.Hear its breath in your own lungs,feel its pulse in your own skin.You were never waiting to become—you have always been. Step forward unbound. Let the world shatter and reform in your wake.

Unapologetic

I will not die by fate divine, no poet’s end, no grand design. No final act, no curtain call— just something dumb. Just watch me fall.A stubbed toe swells, a purple bloom, infection spreads, I meet my doom. Or maybe just a single sneeze— a spinal snap, I crumple, pleased.A cat once clawed me, deep and raw, its rusted nails defied all law. An ant once bit—one tiny prick— and down I fell, a melting wick.The Reaper watched and said "not yet'.But I lived. Again, again— like fate mistook the how and when. A shotgun kissed my waiting head, but left me standing, dazed instead.And the Reaper said "not yet".The ocean flipped my kayak twice, I sipped the void, I paid the price. But strangers breathed me back to shore, then vanished. (Never seen before.)And the Reaper said "not yet".An elevator groaned and snapped, nine stories down, its guests entrapped. But I had left—just one floor high. The next man in? He learned to fly.And the Reaper said "not yet".A car ride—wrong door, twist of fate. A friend said, "No, the —other mate." I stepped away, just one foot wide— the others took a different ride.The Reaper whispered " next time..".A mild dispute with dynamite, which shook the ground, erased the night. The trees dissolved, the dust turned red— but I remained, still not quite dead.And the Reaper murmured "not yet".A doctor frowned, "Your gut’s decayed, your brain’s a wreck, your odds mislaid." Yet there I sat, "Well, what’s the deal?" He skimmed his notes—"You shouldn’t heal."And the Reaper shrugged "not yet I guess".So here I am—against all odds, a glitch, a joke, a fraud to gods. In some dark worlds, I bit the dust, but here I linger—live I must.And when I go, it won’t be grand, no poet’s pen, no sculptor’s hand. Just gasps of "Wait—that? No way, no!" A death too dumb to undergo.A toe, a trip, a swollen hue, infection spreads, I turn to glue. And as the Reaper comes, you'll hear me crow: "See, I told you so."

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

The traveler

The Smell of Burning Wings

The track

Mark Burgess's tea cup

Unapologetic

Not Yet