Poetry

Clone

In a quiet lab, beneath the humming lights, A single cell awakes, a twin in waiting— Identical in code, yet yearning for its own spark, A mirror that dares to dream beyond the

Hunch

A hunch, a whisper in the quiet mind, A flicker of the unseen, half‑formed, half‑blind. It tugs at thoughts like mist upon the Thames, A subtle pull that sways our secret aims.

Forty

Forty candles flicker, a modest blaze, On the mantle where the years have lain, Each flame a whisper of the days That slipped through fingers like soft rain. In the garden, roses

Sense

Sense – a quiet compass in the breast, A whisper of the world that lingers, Not merely sight, nor sound, nor taste, But the subtle thread that weaves them all. It is

Match

On a damp kitchen shelf, a solitary match lies, its wooden shaft a humble brown, the sulphur tip a shy surprise. When struck against the rough‑hewn side, a sudden flare ignites— a tiny

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