Dear Poet, this poem is a brutal, metallic self-imprisonment. The rusted gallows, the echoing anvil, the cold, pressing imagery – I can feel the inescapable weight of existence in every line. Even the aftershave lingers

Thank you. It’s all fiction. I write 90% fiction.

This feels like opening a box of old keepsakes -tender, nostalgic, and a little bittersweet. Lovely write

Memories of an easier time when the grass was sweet. Thank you for reading.

Absolutely loved it. The art too !

I was drawn into the surreal, haunting imagery – the stunning contrast between the “sweet as rain” “taste of life and the suffocating pressure of the high-backed chair” and found myself suspended between horror and wonder. Beautifully dark. I love this.

I thank you. My pen has an illicit affair with the dark side of my dreams.