Welcome to my writing portfolio! Here, you'll find a collection of my most evocative and unique pieces. I specialize in crafting content that leaves a lasting impression. Explore my work and discover how my unique style can elevate your next project.

Sepulchral Toll

The moment of the sepulchral toll
Power and prayer, both lose control
Holy men and Kings laid low
 No matter — into the ground we go

Plagued or well, the short or tall
Home or abroad, the Bell will call
 [Bell toll, Bell toll, Bell toll]
Necropolis silence swallowed whole
The echo from this sepulchral toll

Faith unravels thread by thread
Madness hums where reason fled
Each reflection creates a hole
Another self, another role

Men and women, babes and old
Broken hearts, their stories sold
Masks of virtue, a painted show
 No matter — into the ground we go

Bell of mourning breaking wide
Ringing inside a hollowed mind
Each chime without control
The summoning of its sepulchral toll

Eyes in glass begin to weep
Dreams grow teeth, gnaw so deep

Every prayer a web-spun lie
Each breath a slow goodbye

Accidents strike and cancers spread
Weak and strong join the dead
By knife or gun, we may not know
 No matter — into the ground we go

Unkempt stones of guided rows
Pride or pity, none dare oppose
Hearing the Bell let sorrow roll
It sings evermore, the sepulchral toll

Now darkness covers every face
Memory fades without a trace
Sanity devoured by fears untold
Eager to feed on vagrant souls

Dressed in silk or dust and ash
Rich or poor, regardless of class
Poured in urn or sunk down below
 No matter — into the ground we go

Every stripe of man, reap and sow
Consigned to the cold, tag on toe
Closer it comes, the sepulchral toll
 No matter — into the ground we go

Left in silence, none to console
Dust to dust — the inescapable woe
 [Bell toll, Bell toll, Bell toll]
With the Bell to deliver the blow
 No matter — into the ground we go

The death knell of its sepulchral toll

Urban Ruin

I walk to my train
on an average city afternoon,
and stumble upon a dumpster—
cursed by time, embraced by rot,
under the urban sky.

Inside, a tapestry of rubble:
beer cans, soiled briefs,
roots ripped from prosperous beds.

Pungent decay weaves a thread through
organic filth, chemical activity,
and blankets doused in toxic waste—
embroidering a tomb of disarray.

The dumpster is exposed,
lies bare for all to see,
passed by unnoticed, without thought—
remnants of what we left behind,
a deafening mirror, reflecting the masses

But I stand in disbelief,
at the humanlike ruin,
And all I can do is pray
when my time comes,
this scorned society does not leave me
to rot beneath the urban sky.