Tiny Worlds: The Wooden Bedroom
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Reconstructing King Tut's Tomb
A week ago, stumbling about forlornly within the deepest abysses of summer-vacation-induced monotony, I found my battered old copy of Ian Shaw's 'The Oxford History of Ancient Egypt'. Thus was born
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The Storm
Glinting slashes of white bone,Velvet dark of the unknown. An agile pounce, a booming roar,Blood seeps into the undergrowth. Blood-soaked earththe ichor of life Apollo’s wrath, muffled by storm.A shadow dispersed,A silence born.
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The Perfume Bottle
The many divots and indents upon its body of glass twinkle like the stained windows of a cathedral at night, devoid of colour. Stains that smell like the twinkling of an old piano in a dusty library. A smell that coats the hollows of your bones, like...
Aug 17, 2025
Disparity
A (very) short poem without the letter 'e'
Aug 17, 2025
Descent
Sometimes, falling asleep feels like tumbling down a tall, hollow building—the only light streaming in through tiny rows of windows at each floor that flash by you. And each flash of light is accompanied by a thudding boom that hollows your bones, a ...
Aug 17, 2025