Poetry

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

Mania

Mania In fevered nights the mind ignites, A restless blaze that none can tame— Ideas erupt like sparks of light, Each thought a flame that cries its name. Hearts pound in

Bleak

Bleak In the hollow of a winter dawn, the sky hangs heavy, a slate‑grey shroud, while frost etches silent lace on windowpanes, and the world holds its breath beneath a thin, unforgiving light. Fields lie fallow,

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