Poetry

Happy

In sun‑kissed mornings, laughter bubbles bright, A gentle hum that lifts the heart’s delight. The world awash in golden, warm repose, Where worries melt like frost before the rose. Hands clasp in

Itchy

Itchy—like a summer breeze that teases the skin, A whisper of irritation, a mischievous grin. It crawls over shoulders, down arms, and between toes, A restless reminder that something softly glows. Scratch

Prime

In the quiet hush of number’s line, Prime stands tall, a solitary sign— A lone integer, indivisible, pure, Its only friends are one and itself, for sure. From two’s first whisper to

Axiom

An axiom stands, quiet and sure, A truth accepted without proof— Like the sunrise that paints the sky In soft gold, without question why. It whispers through the halls of thought, A foundation

Glyph

In the hush of script’s quiet realm, a single glyph awakens— a whisper carved in ink or stone, its curve a secret, softly spoken. It dances on the parchment’s breath, a loop, a

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