Poetry

Plank

A weathered plank lies upon the shore, its grain a map of time’s own lore. Once part of a ship that cut the spray, now it dreams of tides that fade away.

Acrid

Acrid In the kitchen’s quiet hush, a wisp of smoke curls, Acrid as burnt toast, it bites the nostrils, A sharp, sour tang that tingles the tongue, Like orange zest left too long in

Ethic

The quiet pulse of conscience beats, A steady drum beneath the streets, Where right and wrong in shadows play, And choices whisper night and day. In boardrooms, labs, and village halls, Ethic calls,

Anger

Anger is a storm that gathers low, A thunder‑cloud behind the eyes, It crackles in the clenched jaw, And flickers like a faulty neon sign. It rolls down the street in a

Below

Beneath the city’s humming streets, where the pavement sighs beneath tired feet, the world below unfolds in quiet grace, a hidden realm of stone and time’s embrace. Down in the tube’s echoing

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