Poetry

Gavel

The Gavel’s Quiet Would In the hush of the old courthouse, the gavel lies in shadow, wood‑brown pew, its handle, worn by gentle touch, echoing past tales of law’s firm pew. Its face,

Forrest Gump

Forrest Gump In a quiet corner of a cinema’s programme, where the screen flickers like a summer window, a story unfurls with a heart that beats so true— the gentle march of a man,

Swoop

Swoop On a pallid morn when the distant hills wear their mist‑clad cloaks, the air is slick with a promise of swift, unspoken rites. No lullaby but the faint rattle of the Robin‑hood of memory,

Fight Club

Fight Club In the dim back‑room of a weather‑beaten pub, the floor is a scar‑topped canvas of dust and old varnish. Behind the bartender’s window, the city exhales its grey stories, but inside the

Inception

Inception In London’s misty twilight, as the city’s thoughts fettle, The first spark is a whisper of a world yet unfurled— A seed, thin‑shaped as a dream in a mind’s gentle gravel, Planting in

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