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.

Haunting and evocative, this poem beautifully captures memory and loss. The imagery of ghosts, empty rooms, and “cognac secrets” lingers long after reading.

Empty rooms are alive with memories. A haunting read of what has been and gone. Loved it.

Chris

Thank you, Chris.

I felt completely immersed in this chilling, atmospheric piece, where the forest is a cathedral of memory and ghosts. The imagery is mesmerizing; I can practically smell the cold resin and hear the whispers.

I love the dark side in writing. It can only hurt you, if you let it.