Poetry

Whiny

Whiny whispers drift through the afternoon, A plaintive sigh that lingers in the air— Each complaint a soft, persistent tune, That drags the sunshine into sullen glare. It slides across the kitchen

Louse

On the scalp’s soft hidden plain, A tiny louse creeps, thin and plain— A speck of life in nit‑filled hair, Its six‑legged march beyond compare. It feeds on blood, a quiet bite, Leaving

Serum

In the quiet lab, a vial glows, Serum holds the whispered hope, A pale elixir, clear as Thames, Where science meets the patient’s sigh. Each drop a promise, quiet, keen, To mend the flesh, to

Speak

When the dawn breaks soft upon the quiet street, A single word can stir the hush beneath the feet. To speak is to unfurl a ribbon of bright sound, That weaves through crowded

Stung

Stung by the sudden sting of a summer bee, I reel beneath the amber sky’s soft gleam. The world, once calm, now hums with frantic glee, Each pulse a tiny, throbbing, crimson dream.

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