Poetry

Artificial intelligence

On the Lattice of Minds In a dimmed server room where the copper hum whispers through the age‑old wires, the programme spins, a quiet ballet of zeros and ones. Each line of code, a

Shout

In the hush of morning mist, A single voice can break the hush— A shout that tears the quiet veil, Sending ripples through the vale. It climbs the hill, it slides the

Scrub

Scrub In morning light the kitchen sighs, A sponge awash with sudsy skies, It darts across the chipped‑blue tiles, Whisking away the greasy miles. The bristles knead the stubborn stain, Like tiny soldiers on

Tepid

In the kitchen’s quiet hour, the kettle sighs a tepid hum, its steam a shy, reluctant plume that drifts across the chilly floor. A cup of tea, half‑warmed, half‑cool, holds the colour of

Triad

Triad Three notes converge in quiet harmony, A chord that sings of balance, whole and true: Root, third, and fifth—each voice a loyalty, Together forming hues both rich and new. Like

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