Poetry

Chide

Chide In a quiet London flat, the kettle hisses, The kettle that recites its loyal verse with steam— and in the kitchen air, a soft voice rises, A gentle hand that noses the boy's

The Matrix

In the quiet glow of a darkened room, the screens hum low, the cables loom, a cascade of green‑coded ghosts appear, and the illusion of the world is dear. Neo lies, a

GoodFellas

In a city that never sleeps, the nights are lit with shadows long where smokestacks bleed mist. “Goodfellas,” they whisper, a name that’s pure grit, a legend where loyalty and blood are the

Weigh

On the Old Measure In the quiet cellar of a London house, an iron balance sighs beneath the floor. The brass arms swing, the ears of stone swing out like stiff‑necked, honest ghosts. They say

Cigar

The Nicely‑Smoked Letter In a quiet corner of a London teahouse, the steam curls like a moody fog of Thames‑bank mist. A gentleman in tweed, a faint smile that lingers— his cigar is the

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