... for home is a magnet that lures back even its most abstracted children.

She's one of the few people able to look beyond the lines on my face to see the twenty-year-old who lives inside.

So much in life came down to timing.

She doesn't know I cry for the changing times. That just as I reread favourite books, some small part of me hoping for a different ending, I find myself hoping against hope that the war will never come. That this time, somehow, it will leave us be.

Hope, how she had grown to hate the word. It was an insideious seed planted inside a person's soul, surviving covertly on little tending, then flowering so spectacularly that none could help but cherish it.

I simply love writing good stories, that's my passion.

Had any poet adequately described the wretched ugliness of a loved one turned inside out with grief?