He sips silently from a silver plated cup, No saucer. He seizes all the Fallen drips. But he is no saint, no martyr. He doesn’t have a name to […]...Read More
The sun is gone. He no longer sits atop his cloudy perch but has been whisked away — an egg yolk reduced to foam. The froth of the sky has […]...Read More
The colours shimmer; tiny particles of light lashed against the rocky surface. They cling, silvery beads of hope, like fresh oysters. They wink at passersby — or rather, swimmers by. […]...Read More