Poetry

Theft

Theft In the quiet of a London street, where late‑night buses hiss and novelists retreat, a shadow slips through the damp and drizzle, his fingers cold against the pulse of a wallet's drizzle. It is

The Martian

In the quiet twilight of a desert sky, I hear the wind speak in a tongue of iron, Its sighs a cracked old poem, written across the dust and stone, lined in the colour

Linen

From the heather‑scented fields where flax grows green, the old‑world wind pulls the stalks till they bow, serene. Farm hands twist the stiff strands into a silken line, and the handloom hums, steady—

Secrets & Lies

Secrets & Lies In the quiet of a London flat a cable‑wrapped hush hangs like a shawl; the tea‑pot’s steam curls, a soft, sly draft of truths cloaked beneath the coat‑folds all.

Donnie Darko

In the Shadow of the Midnight Train In a damp, mist‑swaddled suburb, a boy named Donnie sits, His thoughts a tangle of time‑pieces in a neat Victorian box. The clock on the wall

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