Poetry

Naive

Naive hearts beat soft in morning light, Trusting the world with a gentle sigh, They see the sky as a promise bright, And miss the shadows that wander by. In cobblestone lanes

Knock

At the quiet hour when night leans low, A soft tap—knock—breaks the hush of snow. A hand unseen upon the oak, Three gentle beats, a whispered spoke. It may be friend with

Amber

In mist‑clad woods the pines once wept, Their golden tears congealed to amber’s hue, A fossil sunrise caught in silent keep, Where tiny wings forever beat anew. At crossroads, amber traffic lights

Adore

Adore — a whisper soft as summer light, A gentle flutter in the heart’s quiet chamber, Where each breath sighs love’s tender, timeless rite. It drapes the soul in robes of

Torso

In the quiet cathedral of the torso, Ribs arch like ancient stone buttresses, Guarding the soft organ‑garden where breath And pulse entwine in a steady, hidden rhythm. The chest, a broad‑shouldered hall,

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