Poetry

Rayon

Rayon drapes in silken sigh, A spun‑light veil of humble dye, Born of wood and chemical grace, It whispers soft, yet leaves no trace. In every thread, the forest sighs— A modest cloth where nature

Whisk

In the quiet kitchen, steel curls and sings, A whisk of wire, a dancer’s rings. It twirls through cream, it lifts the white, Turning batter into morning light. Each loop a promise,

Older

Older In the quiet hush of twilight, Grey threads weave through the loom of years, Each line a story, soft‑spoken, Etched like moss on ancient stone. Hands that once gripped cricket bats Now rest upon warm

Quote

In the hush of ink‑stained pages, a whisper gathers in inverted commas— a quotation, a borrowed breath, held tenderly between two slim, upright marks. We lift a line from Shakespeare’s glow, from Austen’s

Gnash

Gnashing teeth in midnight’s hush, A restless jaw that won’t be hushed, Dreams of battle, fierce and raw, Where shadows gnash and spirits claw. Each bite a whisper, fierce yet frail, Against the

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