Poetry

Draft

Draft In the hush of midnight ink, a blank page waits, a quiet field, where thoughts like shy sparrows pause, hesitant to take to wing. I lay the first faint line, a tremor, a whisper of

Atlas

Atlas In quiet rooms where paper sighs, An atlas lies, a world in fold, Its pages whisper ancient cries, Of mountains brave and seas untold. Each continent a coloured chart, Where rivers trace the amber line, And

Chose

Chose In a quiet kitchen, tea steam curls, A neighbour hums a tune from yesterday, The kettle whistles, the world unfurls – A moment hangs, a choice to sway. You chose the lane that winds

Nerve

Nerve— that quiet wire of daring, a filament of courage stretched between fear and faith, humming beneath the skin, sparking when the heart takes flight, steady as a drum‑roll in the chest of a midnight runner, sharp as

Decry

We hear the chorus rise, a mournful chant, Against the tides that turn and sway, Each voice a plea to decry what’s unjust, To name the wrongs that dare to stay. From

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