Poetry

Wreak

In the quiet of midnight’s sigh, a restless wind begins to wreak its ancient chore upon the stone, whispering secrets that the old walls speak. It wreaks a dance of rusted leaves, tossing

Bossy

She strides the office floor, a crown of confidence, Her voice a clarion, sharp as morning dew, Demanding order in each whispered sentence, Turning chaos into tidy, polished view. Colleagues brace beneath

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

Prone

Prone upon the heath, the wind sighs low, A shadow spreads where thistles grow, My thoughts, like weary sheep, lie prone, Waiting for the sun to claim its own.

Carve

In wood and stone the quiet hand will carve, A whispered story in each grain and groove. With chisel keen, the craftsman's heart does stir, Turning raw timber into forms that live. Each stroke

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