Poetry

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,

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

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

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

Spool

Spool A twisted wheel that keeps the world on track, A silent keeper of skin‑thick tape, A battered little cylinder turned in the flicker of a lamp, Its quiet face a guardian of the

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