imagine your surprise

as you irrevocably realise

everything can be bought

and everyone has a price

what exquisite shock ensues

when you take off $ signs

unveil powers of exchange

and begin to live accordingly

Broken trust lingers,
keloids bloom on tender skin—
time’s sharp hand caresses.

Only mem’ries remain,
etched deep like ancient rivers—
heart learns forgiveness.

Light seeps through the cracks,
wounds become a part of me—
scars, my final strength.

An unlit candle,
a matchstick, waiting in vain—
neither will ignite,
unless one strikes the other,
shadows linger, dim and cold.

A number's just a simple sign,
Yet deeper meanings intertwine.
Like scars that tell a tale,
Each figure's more than pale—
A life lived in each line, so divine!

Of the many things
that have been a regret
"putting down the pen"
has been most rude.

In London’s solemn Poets’ Corner stands,
A stone of memories, carved by gentle hands.
Eighty-five years since its first debut,
Yet names were incomplete, a hidden rue.

Amidst the shadows of a war-torn night,
Charlotte, Emily, and Anne lost their light,
The dots above their names—a simple grace—
Forgotten in the haste, in that troubled space.

Sharon Wright, with keen and watchful eye,
Spotted the error, wondered why.
“Have they not earned this small tribute,
To mark their legacy, resolute?”

With a stonemason’s tap, the dots took form,
A celebration of sisters, in art reborn.
Painted with care, the correction shines,
Echoing the strength of their woven lines.

From Bradford’s heart, where their stories bloom,
Wright sought to banish the lingering gloom.
For every tale of love, loss, and strife,
Deserves to be honoured, enriched with life.

Now near Dickens and Austen, their names align,
In the warmth of remembrance, their spirits entwine.
Eighty-five years later, at last they belong,
A tribute to brilliance, a sweet, timeless song.

In Kilmarnock's print, a treasure lies,
A first edition, where history sighs,
From eighteen eighty-six, its verses flow,
Robert Burns’ heart, in dialect aglow.

Poems Chiefly In The Scottish Dialect,
Whispers of love, and nature’s effect,
Expected to fetch a princely sum,
Fifty to sixty thousand—oh, how it’ll hum!

Once just six hundred, a modest start,
Three shillings it cost, a work of pure art,
Yet within a month, the copies all gone,
Burns' voice, like a lark, sung sweet at dawn.

“To A Mouse” and “The Twa Dogs” share,
Stories of life, in the Scottish air,
At twenty-seven, with passion he wrote,
A legacy penned in each heartfelt note.

Now just eighty-eight copies remain,
A glimpse of the past, a poet’s refrain,
As the auction approaches, the whispers grow loud,
For the magic of Burns, we all stand so proud.