Friendship
The Clockmaker's Lyric
In the small town of Varnhollow, nestled between old hills and restless winds, there lived a peculiar poet named Eliot Bramble. His house was the last one on Gable Street, a crooked cottage bursting at the seams with paper, clocks, and copper wires. He called himself a “poet of precision,” and he believed every verse had a mechanism — a rhythmical gear, a tick-tock of emotion — waiting to be wound.
By Ashikur Rahman Bipul9 months ago in Poets
The Light Between Two Windows
It was the kind of winter in New York City where even the streetlights looked tired. Snow clung to the sidewalks like forgotten promises, and the city pulsed quietly beneath its usual roar. Somewhere in the East Village, in an aging brownstone split into narrow apartments, two strangers lived across from one another, separated by little more than thirty feet of air and glass.
By Shakil Sorkar9 months ago in Poets
