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You made me a slave so I could be saved.
Your sins I forgave.
But, I ask where was your Lord when I was being lynched and tied to the poplar tree?
Unlike your Lord, I feel like I am every day walking down the road to Calvary.

You told me that freedom was mine to gain
if I followed your Lord, a journey that frequently drove me to the grave. Your words, I feel, are inane.
You bartered my soul for a few pieces of gold.
You told me he was the way and the light whilst you bound me…

Photo by svklimkin on Unsplash

What if you were lying on a beach, lost thoughts, listening to the whooshing surf, grains of sand drifting in and out. A cool breeze blows in from the sea, small red crabs scuttling along the beach. I see your eyes opened wide, starring into the distance.

Entranced by your beauty, your face speaks a thousand words, even lost in the silence: the stillness and the calm. Would you be asleep in a field, submerge in long grass surrounded by flowers: dandelions and bright red poppies; the sun shining from above?

Photo by the Author

Let me be the meter to your soul
to present you with a heart of gold
shall I be so bold
to tell you that you have set my heart all aglow?

Now I have seen you,
I can see no other.
And so, the passion grows,
eclipsing the sun,
you have set my heart on the run.

Photo by David Clode on Unsplash

A man was riding a horse on the highway. This route was not the one that he usually took. Tonight, he decided to come this way to save time. He came across two women on his travels, one young with a baby in her arm, the other an elderly lady. The man then proceeded to overtake the women. However, he soon realised that the two women kept up with him no matter how fast he galloped. He stops and turns around to ask the two women if they were following him. The two women replied simultaneously — yes! The man…

For those of sensitive disposition, this is an erotic prose-proceed with caution .

Image by Roget Creamer

I awake to a recurring image of the droplets of precum on the tip of your beautiful stiff ****: the colours, textures of skin stretched to the point of tearing emotions about to gush forth. My tongue prize the dry musk tasted from the air. A piquant that stings and stimulates desires. The alabaster coloured sheathe stretched over blue, green veins: sinuous emotions flow; this I believe is the embodiment of your feelings. You laid bare. My eyes, transfixed, feasted, seduced by the object of desire. …

Image by the Author

I went to the centre of town last night. The atmosphere was electrically charged, with static buzzing through the air. Fragments: magnetic particulates suffused the air — coalescing into a cohesive whole, creating a glazed, translucent veneer. In London, during the day, there were iridescent electrical thunderstorms. So, despite the potential for rain, I decided to walk into town.

At the Southbank, I encountered an army of people. I attempted to sprint up the empty stairs but gave up halfway up, deciding instead to take long strides. Above, the masses are advancing towards me. Overhead hangs brightly coloured cubes with…

An ode to a song

Photo by Bruno Scramgnon from Pexels

The Villagers: ‘Courage.’
Like the feeling I prize,
I don’t want to listen to you too often,
Lest the beauty fades away.
As hot summers days melts dreams,
You haunt and mesmerize me.
Your bright sounds sparkle as clear as sunlight reflects off marbles, and here I sit drifting listlessly watching brightly colored empty canoes sway on a vast ocean vista.
Soaking up the prevailing atmosphere,
I am lost in the music.
Your voice is so timbre clear ^ it cuts warbles on a precipice about to fall.
Vertigo, I fall,
I bleed as the life seeps out of me.
To your sweet tunes — water falls effortlessly; the thoughts…

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

Very poetic and beautiful words.
What a wonderful picture you paint — an opening to your soul.
To observe with such succinct detail.
To find wonder in the apparently mundane — the reflections of the ordinary.
A chance occurrence: the serendipitous…
And, so the painter paints a picture, the writer composes poetic verses and proses.
Is it not thus that beauty resides on the molecular scale.
See images of the trails of particles colliding.
The scientist stands in awe and wonders: Higgs Boson, Quarks, Neutrons, Protons, Fermion, Gluon, Muon and Neutrinos.
Suffice to say the reality far exceeds the imagined, and so it is always?
A picture painted in…


Interested in people, nature, science and technology, and history. MSc in Research Methods (Birkbeck), MA Industrial Design (UAL)

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