Poetry

Flaky

Flaky—an adjective that rolls like a pastry in the wind, Soft, layered, bright, a buttery cloud that basks in afternoon light. Its crumb falls on the tongue like a well‑made promise, Yet the

Psycho

Psycho In a dim-lit draught of London’s sigh, the mind unfurls its fragile, stitched façade— a chiaroscuro of id and fore‑winged bone, where spectres of the past dangle thin. The night‑time alleys of

The Lion King

In the golden hush of the Serengeti’s sweep, where the veldt sighs beneath a blaze of noon, a drumbeat rises—an ancestral heartbeat, the wind‑woven song of a lion’s boon. Simba, once a

Cruel

cruel In the grey hush of a London morning the rain boils the street‑lamps and drips into the boots of strangers who hurry past without a glance. The wind is cruel, it steals

Whiplash

Whiplash It came at the bite of a turn, a sudden lift of a U‑turn out of the heat‑spun lane of Bloomsbury, a pulse‑crack through chrome and glass, the shuffle of furs in

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