poem
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On a brick-lined alley, next to Daisy, a corgi with more charm than Poe’s raven, I stumbled across this sign: ‘Poe-etry in the pocket.’ It struck me that literature is never just confined to books or screens. It leaks into alleys, into conversations, into the static hum of daily life. We write, we post, we
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Ink sleeps heavy,bleeding into silence. Screens breathe fast,like blue fire on skin. Paper.Static.Fleeting. I hover between,half ghost, half spark, consumed, never whole.
Liminal Wordsmith 