Poetry

The Prestige

The Prestige The night unfurls an ancient stage, where silver‑laced lights swallow fame, and two tall figures, black and white, whisper envy into the night. The first, a gentleman of mystique, expects the crowd

Freak

“A Freak” Under a canvas of violet‑carnival lights, the world hums in a half‑eerie lull; the crowd, a sea of pavement‐dusted faces, queues twisting like cobwebs of a London fog. There, at the edge of

American History X

American History X In a stark, sepulchral light the scene is set, A little square in London’s quiet streets, Yet the film is not of rain or that‑old‑city grey, It bears the scars of

Casablanca

Upon the cusp of dawn in calm Casablanca, the harbour sighs like an old dear’s lullaby, its waves lapping the quay wrought in copper‑coloured dreams. The city, a half‑dream of stone

Strut

The Strut In the quiet heart of a bridge, where steel meets stone, there is a silent column, a straight‑angled bone. It carries the weight of a thousand feet‑high skylines, a steadfast

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