There is hunger for pretence—
figures beyond human,
hurtling through soft blue-grey light.
We cheer for their battles,
their victory for us all
against darkness woven like fog.

It is a crutch for choosing—
right or wrong,
their faces become masks for uncertainty.
In their image, we stagger toward
edges sharp as broken glass.

Not all shine is gold,
not all gold is pure.
They rise, the hollow ones,
their voices weighted, but empty.
Hear them speak—
the cadence of cloying lies.
Their shadows will fall,
but leave no imprint.
No heat to warm the frozen ground.

Authentic Heroes are found elsewhere:
in quiet rooms, where sterile hands
touch life trembling.
In the streets where voices rise,
break like the surf
on walls too smooth to hold them.
A nurse, nameless—
soothing sweat-streaked brows.
A marcher, faceless—
breaking the silence of centuries.

Human,   flawed ones walk.
Their steps are uneven.
But they march—
Spartans in no armour,
heart tarnished but true.
The fallen stand again.
Their greatness cracks but does not shatter.

This, too, is comfort: to see them rise
with the weight of imperfection—
gold mixed with clay,
dust glowing in the sun.
We hunger for myths.
We dream of glory.
But heroes walk among us,
as human as breath is fleeting.

the light etches
the retinal disk,

plastered in
blue--
green--
red--
bands,
super-positioned
in the mildewed afterglow of
an exigent god--

garrulous,

too upright for death.

Cast iron rails, uncoiled like snakes,
a beast of blackened smoke awakes.
It's whistle cleaves the night's repose,
and steals all sleep wherever it goes

howls its tune on through dawn
A shining of steel and thunderous form.
The village quakes beneath rumbling tread,
and blossoms yield to wind gust it fed.

It hauls it's secrets, long misanthrope,
Of travellers bound for horizons of hope.
a child in the thrill of adventure unbound
a widow, grief stricken, in suffering is drowned

Its wheels may obey the hill and the climb,
Yet it heeds no master; least of all time.
rails stretch on, indifferent and vast,
Each mile is an echo of infinite, past.

KG

Who am I …
the awakening perception scratches at me,
it's the splinter that hides beneath skin,
the melody that returns when it's quiet,
a mirror that only reflects in fragments;
scattered and shattered.
I am the curve of my father's chin,
my mother's discerning eyes.
I exist as a collection of meaningless comparisons,
yesterday's frustrations stitched into today's ambition.
Milieu named me "as expected,"
folded me neatly into a box labelled convention.
Murmuring voices pressed into me like a blanket,
coercive in reasoning, yet silently limiting.
I bent to the familiar until I no longer asked …
Who am I …
Growth is a kind of breaking,
expanding ideas form subtle questions,
like shedding old skin that has grown too tight,
tearing up roots that have withered in difficult soil.
I planted myself somewhere new and foreign;
I sprouted tender and green in the dew of awareness,
basked in the sunlight of small victories.
Who am I …
I am not the answer; I am the question.
I am the canvas unfinished.
I am not who I was, nor yet who I will be.
I am an earthquake
whose rumbling reshapes the world around it.
I am both the seeker and the treasure,
both the map and the journey.

Ask why ...

It is an almost unnoticed rivulet of enquiry
that can lead to a torrent of understanding.
an ember to ignite a vast blaze of discernment

Ask why ...

not a statement, not a command,
nor a suggestion, it is a bridge
spanning a chasm between what is and what could be

Ask why ...

it will stir up the cobwebs of complacency
**** at the known routine, lay naked hidden motives
habit and convention are shaken

Ask why ...

it forces excavation of purpose.
gets to the very marrow of impetus
it clarifies, it challenges, dismantles

Ask why ...

it insists on lighting the murky shadows
enquires, at the foundation of reason
it is the beginning of a quiet revolution

I scrolled through the world on a glowing screen,  
Where faces smile but none are seen.  
A thousand "friends" with a flick of my thumb,  
but my heart is still lonely, heavy, and numb.

I sent a "LOL" to a blinking face,  
But the laughter? It lingered in no known place.  
The hugs were emojis, the laughs acronyms  
A hollow façade, cheap digital whims.

So I asked my phone, "What’s wrong with me?"  
It buzzed and it hummed and said, "Let’s see…"  
"You’ve got followers, likes, a profile so bright,  
But maybe you’re missing what’s out of sight?"

I wondered aloud, "What do you mean?  
I’ve got all the gadgets and a touchscreen."  
The phone just blinked, and offered no aid,  
The battery dimmed and hope was decayed

So I stepped outside with hesitant feet,  
The air was real, the sun kissed my cheek.  
But what if a stranger my presence espied
Better not risk it, I’m going inside.

I rang up a mate, just to hear them say,
“Wow” it’s been so long! Let’s meet up today."  
No filters, no captions, no polished display,  
Just stories and laughter to fill up the grey.

By the lake where the willows gracefully bend,  
We spoke about nothing, but it still seemed to mend.  
My fears took flight, like birds set free,  
And the world felt vast, yet still kind to me.

But even so, when the sun slipped away,  
And I found myself alone at the end of the day,  
It seemed to me, that we all blindly dance  
Fleeting connections left up to chance."

It’s the paradox, the great in-between,  
Of a world that’s both digital and unseen.
Counting likes to a meaningless prize  
I yearn just to matter in somebody’s eyes .

So I’ll take the tech, but I’ll tread with care,  
And seek the moments that make life rare.  
A screen can’t hold you, nor replace the touch,  
But balance is everything—it matters so much.

So here I stand, a creature of two,  
Caught in the old, the new, the true.  
I’ll scroll a bit, then I’ll put it away,  
and live, and love, in a human way.