The morning brings a nothing kind of day,

can’t see the sun, and wind is just a breeze.

Up overhead, the clouds float high, mid-grey,

that says the threat of rain is but a tease.

 

No stirring of the blood with summer storms

set loose to blow the dreariness away;

a day that strikes the normalest of norms

to dull even the drabbest sort of day.

 

Why can’t there be a ga...

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The page awaits, too silent to forgive, Each empty line a dare I can’t defend. What if I write what shouldn’t even live? What if I start, and ruin where I end? A phrase begins — I edit while I write, Then stop, and stare, and scroll, and check the time. The sentence fights its own pathetic fight, Too scared to be too dull, too sharp, too prime. I think of all the better things I’ve m...

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In a world where fear is ambient and trust decays by the hour, Vine and Punishment strips the illusion of control from everyday life and leaves only the threat that was always there. It doesn’t warn of collapse—it insists you’re already living in it, surrounded by silent rules, arbitrary power, and a quiet violence that feels normal only because it’s constant. A nod to *Dostoevsky’s explor...

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In a grotesque display of ego and irreverence, Donald Trump crowned himself a mock pope on his own media platform, Truth Social—just days after solemnly attending a funeral in Rome. This biting sonnet lays bare the vulgarity of spectacle overpowering sanctity, turning mourning into meme and the Eternal City into a stage for narcissism.

 

When fools parade in robes they’ve never e...

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“The Bitter Cup” reflects the themes of enduring hardship and finding strength in the face of suffering, inspired by Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s “Surrounded by Good Powers...” The sonnet explores the idea of accepting life’s trials with quiet courage, symbolised by the "bitter cup," and trusting that even through pain, we move towards light and renewal. It echoes Bonhoeffer’s own spirit of res...

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This sonnet addresses the irony of calling someone "coloured," highlighting the contrast between black skin, which remains constant, and white skin, which changes with emotional or physical states. This poem reflects on how the colour of one's skin can shift depending on circumstances, challenging the societal labels that define people by their appearance.

When I was born, my skin was dark as...

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We sour, in the throes of some disaster
of our own demoralised unmaking,
abjectly pining for lord and master,
with crown, throne and sceptre for the taking

if they would but lead us to salvation
and make us strong again. We want the myth,
we crave security for our nation,
the ruthless rule of law they'd hold us with;

we'd sell our freedom cheaply for the chance
to pretend that our wor...

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This sonnet critiques the dangerous alliance between powerful tech moguls and a corrupt political figure, symbolised by the "four musketeers" who bow to Trump’s person, influence and might. It explores their sycophantic behaviour, the manipulation of media, and the betrayal of values for profit and power. The poem hopefully paints a chilling portrait of cowardice dressed as strength and the erosio...

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Oh, fortune's wheel that spins both high and low,

Thy hand seems fickle, yet thou canst be tamed.

Not through mere chance doth serendipity grow,

But by the deeds where effort is proclaimed.

 

The lucky soul looks not for fate’s decree,
But steps with courage where the path’s unclear.
They plant the seeds of opportunity,
And tend them well with hope and steady cheer.

 

Prepa...

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