Poetry

Homer

In the mist‑laden hills of ancient Ionia, Where olive groves whisper beneath a sapphire sky, A blind bard named Homer wanders, staff in hand, His voice a thunder that rolls across the ages. He

Story

In quiet corners of the mind, a story lies— A whisper soft, a tale that dares to rise. From ancient hearth to modern page it drifts, A thread of wonder that the soul

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

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