My Absence... Hey there guys, I haven't been able to write as much lately as I've been dead busy with other projects and college work. However, I intend to start writing poetry again. I've also started writing a short story for World Book Day which I will post segments of when it's done. Thanks for all of your support again, means a lot. Adam

Snow It sticks to the surface of every home, Drifts down gently, never on its own. Covers the streets, cars and fence posts, But it's favourite is trees, which it covers the most. It shimmers brightly at every angle, In strobes of blue, green and silver. It breezes in on wintery gales, And covers gates lined with gold. It stays for a few days, laying back, Relaxing on the landscape, covering the tracks; But when it finally sits up, and decides to go, Nobody will forget that it's name is Snow.

Caged I'm sitting here, caged. Silent. My breathing is steady, along with the rest of my body. I'm contained; locked away behind these cold, opaque bars, icy to the touch. A tear glides down my face, and I quickly catch it to stop it from drawing attention to myself. Even with their reassurance, I can't help but wonder; will I ever be free?

Haven The light slices through the wooden slits in the door, illuminating the numerous objects in a glorious yellow light. The hay bales are defined, and the pitchforks and tools mournfully awakened as the light touches them. Old, rusty horseshoes hang like trophies on the dark, mahogany wall. Each of their details are slowly brought to #life by the rising light; the scratches, chipped areas and inlays portrayed quietly, their shadows a continuous reminder on their fading silver surface. Yellowing, gnarled ropes droop from the lofty recesses above, their bodies enveloped in the shadow. Their split ends tell tales years old, of the toils and struggles they have contended with over time. Beneath them is a trough, whose water has dried out after many years of being abandoned and neglected. In a way, it is a haven; a sanctuary. The doors are locked and bolted, their withered wooden wrinkles barely holding them tightly closed, keeping everything inside safe and undisturbed from the outside world.

Remember Let us remember them; Their trembling nerves, their charcoal-smothered faces; Their blistered feet and crimson-cut memories. Let us remember them; Their patriotic screams amongst the silent mists. The water reeds looming, and the debris descending. Let us remember them; Their ironclad bravery, As they charged into battle; And their switchblade smiles, After being knocked from their saddles. Let us remember them; The folklore echoes of tales so bold, Many of their lives colourful canvases, With many left untold.