Poetry
Prism
A thin glass triangle, quiet in its stance, It splits the sun’s warm beam into a spectrum. Each face a doorway, a silent, careful glance, Where white light fractures into colour’s rhythm. It whispers
Read more →Christmas Day
On the first of December, the sky turns up‑turned, The brittish air pre‑filled with the scent of pine, The tinsel on the tree, the fruities browned and spun, A glow that, though winter‑tight,
Read more →Casino
In the heart of the city, night descends, A velvet glow from glass and chrome, Where every reel and slot machine hums With promises that never end. The croupier’s voice, a calm decree, Whispers over
Read more →The Sixth Sense
The Sixth Sense In the hush of midnight trains, a whisper calls my ear, Not of wind or timetable, but the pulse that runs near. A shimmer emerald between the long‑plotted lines, Like a
Read more →The Thing
The Thing In the pale glow of a forgotten harbour, where cold iron waves drop silver bruises on the earth, there lingers a shape, a silent, thin‑spanning hush— the Thing that shivers beneath every
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