Where Words Wander

In every stilted word a story lies,
each pregnant pause—a poem resides.
In that which remains unsaid,
the truest word will rear its head
.

A volcanic death rattle—shatters sky,
the moribund calls; my fatal cry.
This meek voice undeterred,
yearning to be solemnly heard
.

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Grew up in the Essex countryside and currently resides in London. Passing through his 30s far too quickly. Likes: writing, design, the arts, and copious amounts of coffee. He is working on his first novel.

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