Poetry

Heat

Heat – the quiet, restless pulse that sways through London’s gravel and the moor’s broad green where the sun, a naked clock, ticks forward and every shadow is a sigh that holds a piece

Sitar

In the quiet of a London tea‑room, gold‑shimmering strings reach for the sky, the sitar sighs, a whisper of sitar rhythm, a soft roop through harp‑ged channels of night. Its neck bows

Scarface

Scarface (A British Ode) In a dimly‑lit cinema, the opening credits flash, The glow of neon on a black‑and‑white screen, The roar of a trumpet, and a hungry heart’s crash— Scarface breathes

Hamilton

Hamilton In the mist‑clad dawn of New‑World dreams, A boy of West Indies kissed by the sea, With grit and polish both alike, Raised on paper, ink, and iron teeth. His letters marched through the

Proof

In the quiet halls of the university’s old brick, Proof‑marks the sigh of a scholar’s heart, a measured step through the steps of reason, where every line on the board is a promise

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