Poetry

Throw

Throw In the park, a child lifts a scarlet ball, eyes bright, fingers flexing, the world a pause— the arc begins, a lazy sigh of leather, spinning like a whispered secret towards the sky.

Pixel

In the quiet hum of a screen, each pixel dreams, a speck of colour, a quiet gleam. Together they stitch a tapestry of light, forming faces, landscapes, day and night. From a

Trust

In quiet rooms where whispers blend, A hand held firm, a promise mend. Trust is the thread that weaves the night, A soft lantern in fading light. It blooms like roses in the rain, Rooted

Meant

What was meant to be, the quiet thread, Weaving through days like soft, unseen wool, Stitching our hopes into the cloth of fate, Where every choice finds its rightful pull. In corridors

Glaze

On the warm bun, a mirror gleam, Sugar spun on morning air. A quiet crack, a gentle gleam— The promise of the baker's care. Not born of fire, nor kiln's deep glow, But

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