Poetry

Trash

In the corner of the street, a rust‑red bin awaits, Swallowing yesterday’s paper, broken toys, and plates. Each wrapper sighs as it slips beneath the lid, A quiet ballet of refuse where forgotten

Heist

Midnight cloaks the city’s quiet streets, A whispered plan, a silent crew of thieves, They glide like shadows 'cross the wet pavement, Their eyes fixed on the vault’s impregnable weave. The lorry

Foyer

In the foyer of a Georgian townhouse, where marble steps meet a polished oak, the scent of lavender drifts from a vase, and a grandfather clock ticks a soft, steady stroke. A

Royal

In the hushed corridors of ancient stone, A crown of gold catches the dawn’s soft tone, Where regal footsteps echo through the hall, And whispers of the throne enthral. The sovereign’s gaze,

Fewer

Fewer footsteps echo down the lane, Fewer clouds linger in the grey‑tinged sky, Fewer words are whispered in the rain, Fewer hearts beat beneath the same old sigh. Yet in the quiet

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