Stay Alive—your Essence Is The Wildfire Poem by Mohammad Younus

Stay alive—your essence is the wildfire,
no storm can drown.
Eternal, unchained from sands,
you dance through aeons in cosmic rhythm,
persist when shadows swallow every path,
when mountains succumb to the ocean's whispered chill.
Death's door? A silvered glass. Step through, and see
your face ablaze in constellations' forge.

Don't chant farewells while your heart still thunders
life's anthem. Let no ghosts of "never" or "too late"
blot out your pulse. No truth is etched in ash.
No breath's on loan. The void you dread? A fable.
Darkness is loam—a womb where roots embrace
the dawn's first blush. When doubt's riptide claws
at your bones, grip the compass burned into your chest.
When grief snuffs the moon, *be* the flame.

Stillness isn't defeat—it's the quiet where seeds
rupture earth, reaching for the sun's fierce kiss.
Life doesn't whisper. It roars. *Roar wilder.*

Stay alive in the marrow's hum, the spark
between neurons, your blood's midnight hymn.
Let rain purify your skin. Let your lungs shape
symphonies from wind. Be tide-swallow,
cedar-split in the hearth, the wolf's cry threading
wilderness into daybreak. See with eyes
that thaw glaciers to blossoms. Hear the hymn
hidden in the crow's wing. Speak verbs that birth
suns. Taste storm's iron on your tongue. Feel time
as the current you ride, not chains. Think in fire-
questions. Act in stone-truths.

Gather wisdom not in stone, but as riverflow—
let it sculpt you, bear you, become your sea.
Let knowledge be clay. Spin dreams into bridges,
sundials, temples. Forge with a god's fervor.
Recreate yourself with each dawn's newborn art.

Stay alive *in* the Kaaba of your ribs,
where divinity thrums in each breath's tide.
Stay alive *through* the city's fractured pulse,
where universes spin in dandelion flight.
Sip twilight's cobalt, the sun's scarlet cry.
Breathe the pauses between cello's sighs.

Let your soul be a loom for the moon's slow aria.
Wear presence like a second skin. Let your light
split fog, guide wanderers home. You're no lone note—
you're the choir. You're both the weaver and the woven thread.
To live is to blaze. To blaze is to begin.

So feed your eternal flame. Hold the paradox—
fleeting as wind, boundless as night's forge.
The world's no frame—you're canvas, brush, and hand,
the vision, the stroke, the *why*. Stay. Alive.

—MyKoul