Poetry

Prisoners

In the Quiet Halls of the Everyday The bell rings—soft as the wind that cracks the iron bars, its chime echoing through the damp red‑brick corridor. In the twilight of the daft, colour‑less

Conch

On a windswept strand in Cornwall, where brass‑tarred far‑off ships make their own faint drum, there sits a shell of wax‑glazed, perfect round— a conch that feels the pulse of ancient foam. Its ribs,

A Beautiful Mind

A Beautiful Mind In the quiet lanes of thought, a garden grows, Each idea a seed that flowers in the mind’s heart. From the roots of curiosity, the mind’s colour blooms, A tapestry of

The Great Escape

The Great Escape In the still‑black dawn of a winter’s gloom, Walls of iron and stone seemed to loom, But hope leapt, defiant, “no eternal doom,” Each hand a brush, each foot a plume. Through

Klaus

Klaus by the Old Waterfront Beneath the blue of the Thames‑bank sky, Klaus walks the cobbles, a quiet wry grin, Did a half‑pint in a Chelsea corner, His laugh tucked beside a battered flat‑iron. He

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