Making Contact

This could be anything.
These words are just symbols,
together on a page,
that my mind has arranged
in such a way
as to trick your brain
into maybe
believing me.

This could be a love letter.
This could be
my heart and soul
and blood,
upon this page.
This could be yearning,
and loneliness,
and heartbreak,
that consumes me in your absence.
A sky;
minus Polaris.
But this is not a love letter.

This could be an ultimatum.
A declaration of war.
This could be every grievance,
wrongdoing, hurt feeling,
line crossed
and slight,
however small.
A writ of accusation
and a formal notice of intent
that open hostilities
are now on the table.
A fist fight,
a gun fight,
full blown nuclear holocaust.
Time to burn it all down.
But this is not an ultimatum.

This could be a cry for help.
An S.O.S.
A message in a bottle,
floated out into the universe’s
endless ether,
in hope,
in desperation,
that another one might read these words
and know just what they mean.
On a planet full of people.
As uncontacted as some Amazon tribe.
But this is not a cry for help.

This is not a love letter,
or an ultimatum,
nor is it an S.O.S.,
but every word
is a plea
to every person
who reads them;
we are out here.
All of us.

HG – 2019

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