Anthony's Literary Lens

Category: illustration

  • Horse’s Journey Through Time

    Horse’s Journey Through Time

    Eyes that hold the stars,
    Speak of wisdom, trust, and time,
    Timeless bond remains.

    Spirit of the horse

    I have roamed the earth since the dawn of humanity, my hooves carving paths into the soil of history. I am the spirit of the horse, a flicker of wild grace and unbroken strength that moves through the ages. From the plains where men first cast their shadows beside mine, to the battlefields where their cries mingled with my breath, I have stood witness to the delicate dance of trust between us. 

    Man and horse. 
    Horse and man. 
    Bound by something older than words, 
    Deeper than any sea.

    I remember the first ones. They were wary, their hands trembling as they reached out, offering me grain, their voices soft with the caution of new beginnings. I was wild then, untamed as the wind that raked the tall grass. They saw in me something they could not name but knew they needed. Strength. Freedom.

    And so, they tamed me. But not with chains. No, they tamed me with the whisper of promise: _”Come with me, and together we will run farther than the horizon.”

    I ran with them into battlefields drenched in blood, my heart pounding against the war cries of men. I carried warriors clad in iron, their swords raised high, their hopes resting on my shoulders. They whispered prayers into my ears before the charge, and I bore their fears as much as their weight. When they fell, I stood guard, refusing to leave their side. I knew what they meant when they called me “brother.” 

    But I also knew gentler days. 
    The quiet fields of farmers. 
    The laughter of children as they clutched my mane. 
    The soft hands of women weaving flowers into my bridle. 

    I pulled plows through soil rich with promise, feeling the rhythm of life in every furrow. I was the strength they leaned on, the constant in their seasons. They sang songs to me, songs of gratitude and kinship, their melodies blending with the rustle of wheat and the murmur of streams. 

    Through centuries, I watched as the bond between us changed. Machines rose to take my place, their cold precision replacing the warmth of my breath. I was no longer the heart of their progress, but still, they found me in the wild places. They sought me out to feel alive, to remember what it meant to run free. 

    There is something eternal in our connection, something that even the hum of engines cannot erase. It is in the way a rider leans into my rhythm, their heartbeat syncing with mine. It is in the way they look into my eyes and see something ancient, something untamed but trusting. 

    Man and horse. 
    Horse and man. 
    Together, we have crossed deserts and rivers, 
    faced storms and sunrises. 

    You have given me purpose, and I have given you wings. 

    Even now, as the world spins faster than it ever has, I feel your need for me. You come to me with your burdens, your silent fears, and I take them from you, if only for a while. You whisper to me of things you cannot say aloud, and I listen. I always listen. 

    I am the spirit of the horse, and I will endure. 
    For as long as you seek freedom, 
    for as long as your soul longs to run, 
    I will be there. 

    Together, we are more than the sum of our parts. 
    Together, we are a story, 
    written in the dust of ancient trails 
    and carried on the wind of endless tomorrows.

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  • Remember, I Am Kind by Choice

    Remember, I Am Kind by Choice

    Kindness waits unseen,
    a seed planted in the gaps—
    soft rebellion grows.

    Ethereal

    Kindness is a choice. Not a reflex, not an inheritance, but a deliberate act of defiance. I remind myself of this often, especially on days when the world feels jagged and raw, like a half-shattered window that refuses to break or mend.

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    There are moments—sharp, vivid moments—when I could so easily let anger, irritation, or indifference take the reins. The barista forgets my order; the driver cuts me off on the motorway; the email arrives, dripping with condescension. But somewhere in the labyrinth of my chest, a voice stirs, calm yet firm. “Choose,” it says. “Remember.” 

    It is not an instinct. Instinct is survival, and survival is often cruel. But kindness is the quiet art of holding a mirror to the world and refusing to reflect its harshness. It’s not about sainthood or martyrdom—I don’t believe in halos. It’s about balance. About knowing that, even in chaos, you can plant something tender. 

    There’s a man who sits by the park near my flat, always in the same frayed jacket, his hands like dry riverbeds. Once, I walked past him without a second glance. Another day, I handed him an orange, its skin bright as a distant star. We didn’t speak. He didn’t need to thank me. What mattered was the act itself—the quiet offering to the unseen universe. 

    Kindness, I think, is a language best spoken without words. It’s in the unspoken patience as a stranger fumbles for coins at the till, or the way you pause to let someone else’s story unfold without rushing to add your own. It’s in forgiving yourself, too, for the days when kindness feels like an impossible weight. 

    There’s a certain magic in the spaces between things—the gaps in reality where something inexplicable hums. Kindness lives there, too. It’s not flashy. It doesn’t ask for applause. It exists in the quiet, persistent decision to hold the world gently, even when it feels like it’s slipping through your fingers. 

    Remember, I am kind by choice. Not because the world deserves it, but because I do. Because the act of choosing shapes me. Because I’ve seen what grows in the absence of kindness, and it’s a garden I refuse to tend. 

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  • Searching for Truth – The Construct

    Searching for Truth – The Construct

    Lost in streams of thought,
    truth becomes our shared compass,
    guiding through the noise.

    Getting to the reality

    I’ve been turning this idea over in my head for a while, mostly as an idle musing, and it just seemed too interesting not to share. There’s something about the way people are so deeply committed to finding out “what’s really true” these days, that it got me wondering if truth itself might be taking on a kind of… spiritual role for us. Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m not out to replace religion or compare it too literally! I’m just fascinated by the way people dive so passionately into fact-checking, debating, and uncovering hidden realities. It feels like we’ve collectively found this new energy for seeking meaning and understanding in our world, especially with the internet at our fingertips. So, this is just me thinking out loud about where that passion might be leading us.

    In a time when information is everywhere, “truth-seeking” feels like the new way people come together over something meaningful. With the internet’s vast collection of perspectives, history, and data, it’s like we have a massive, digital library where everyone can pull their favorite books off the shelf, compare notes, and debate the facts. Social media has turned us all into researchers of sorts, each person piecing together their idea of truth from this endless stream of info.

    Back when knowledge was controlled by a few authorities, people had to take a lot of what they were told on faith. But today, the internet has shifted things. There’s no central voice anymore; instead, we all have the power to question, verify, and share our findings with anyone who’ll listen. It’s almost like we’re all members of a giant, curious community, connected by our shared drive to understand what’s real.

    Of course, with everyone on the hunt for truth, it’s easy to see how things can get tangled. Misinformation spreads, echo chambers grow, and people can land in very different realities. Still, the drive to explore, to dig deeper, and to get as close to the truth as we can brings us together in a unique way. It’s not about arriving at one ultimate truth; it’s about this shared, ongoing quest that gives us purpose. Maybe it’s not a religion in the usual sense, but there’s a sense of unity and purpose in it—and that feels like something worth musing over.

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  • Stag in Sunlight

    Stag in Sunlight

    Sunlight spills like breath,
    ancient trees hold quiet watch,
    stag stands, still as stone.

    A stag in sunlight standing in the woods

    In the quiet hush of morning, a single stag stands alone in a secluded forest clearing, his figure outlined in gentle streams of light that filter down from the canopy above. Each ray seeps through the branches and leaves, softening as it falls, wrapping him in a halo that seems both eternal and fleeting. His antlers, branches of bone and time, reach into the air with a majestic calmness, each point a marker of seasons come and gone, each curve a silent record of survival and adaptation. His coat is rich, a mix of earth-browns and shadows, blending into the woods yet catching the light just enough to stand apart, to be noticed.

    This moment—the stag, the sunlight, the stillness—is a scene millions of years in the making, a perfect portrait painted by evolution’s quiet hand. From the simplest of life forms, driven by the need to survive, to the elegance of this creature, whose every feature has been shaped by time itself, life has woven something wondrous. The stag’s heightened senses, his graceful frame, even the natural lines of his form, all serve a purpose, yet they come together to create something beyond mere function. They become beauty. And beauty, too, has its place in evolution, for it draws us near, inspires us to protect, to connect, to pause and simply be present.

    We, too, are shaped by evolution’s design, moulded not only to see but to feel, to wonder, and to appreciate. Perhaps, in a way, our perception of beauty is a survival instinct itself—a way to recognize harmony, to find peace in nature’s rhythms, to feel at home in the world that bore us. Standing in the clearing, we understand our role in this continuum. This moment of quiet awe is a part of something larger—a shared heritage with this stag, this forest, this light. In that silent connection, beauty becomes a bridge across time, binding us to all that has come before and all that will follow.

    And so we stand, quietly watching, breathing, and being, as the stag lifts his head, his gaze piercing yet soft, both knowing and unknowing. In this clearing, we glimpse the rare gift that evolution has left us: the capacity to see beauty not only in what we need but in all that simply is.

    What scene takes your breath away?

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  • Ghostly Swan

    Ghostly Swan

    In moonlit silence,
    A swan glides on still waters—
    Peace found, then it fades.

    Chasing fleeting dreams,
    A willow weeps by the lake—
    Life’s truths left unshared.

    For as long as anyone could remember, Thomas had been searching for the perfect image. He had wandered through cities and across open fields, scaling mountains and drifting through forests, camera in hand, eyes ever searching. It wasn’t fame or fortune he sought, nor was it even artistic acclaim. He simply wanted to capture something that spoke to the deepest part of himself—a vision so complete it would silence the restless hum in his soul.

    Decades passed, and Thomas’s pursuit became an obsession. He had taken thousands of photos: sweeping landscapes, crumbling ruins, the faces of strangers who carried entire lifetimes in their expressions. Yet none of it stilled the ache. The perfect image remained elusive, a dream slipping just out of reach. With every new shot, the feeling that something was missing gnawed at him.

    He was nearing the end of his life. His once-strong hands had begun to tremble, and his eyes, once so sharp and clear, had grown tired. Still, the search went on. One evening, while wandering a quiet countryside, Thomas stumbled upon a hidden lake. The air was cool and damp, the world around him bathed in a soft silver light. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of a willow tree that stood by the water’s edge, its branches cascading toward the lake like a weeping figure. And then, as if conjured by his longing, he saw it—the swan.

    The bird glided across the still water, pure and graceful, as if composed of moonlight, its reflection rippling beneath the willow’s branches swayed gently, framing the moment as if it had been waiting just for him.

    Thomas stood frozen, his breath caught in his throat. This was it. This was the image he had been searching for his entire life. His heart raced, but he did not reach for his camera. He knew that no lens could capture the perfection of what lay before him. The stillness of the night, the way the swan moved, the timeless serenity of it all—it was beyond what words or pictures could convey. It was something that could only be felt.

    For the first time in years, Thomas felt whole. The relentless urge that had driven him for so long fell silent, replaced by an overwhelming sense of peace. He smiled, tears welling in his eyes as he watched the swan disappear into the shadows, its light slowly dissolving into the encroaching darkness. In that moment, he was complete.

    But just as he sat in the embrace of the weeping willow, breathing out a sigh of contentment, his body betrayed him. As the swan’s light faded, so did his strength and energy, his eyes still fixed on the shimmering water, on the memory of the swan. His world grew dimmer, the edges of his vision fading to darkness, but he did not feel fear. Thomas closed his eyes, knowing that he had finally found what he had been looking for.

    And then, he was gone.

    In the end, perhaps the meaning of life is a truth so deeply personal that it eludes expression. It is a fleeting moment of beauty, a profound realisation, or an experience that resonates within us, yet remains impossible to convey. Thomas had found what he had been searching for, a glimpse of perfection that was his alone, a secret forever held within the quiet of his heart.

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  • Grounded

    Grounded

    alone, I watch the sky
    birdsong fades, a mournful cry
    lost, I stand and wait

    The wind whipped through the reeds, carrying with it the mournful cries of my flock. They were long gone, their V-formation etched into the fading light of the sky. I stood alone, an orphan of the skies, in a vast, empty landscape.


    I had always been a bit of an outlier, a dreamer who preferred the quiet solitude of the marshes to the boisterous company of my kin. But now, as the chill of autumn crept into the air, I felt a profound sense of loss. The warmth of their companionship, the comforting rhythm of their wings beating in unison, had been a constant in my life. Without them, I felt adrift, a leaf torn from its branch and carried by the currents of fate.


    I watched the sun dip below the horizon, casting long, dancing shadows across the water. The sky was ablaze with hues of orange, pink, and purple, but I found no beauty in it. It only served to highlight my isolation, a stark contrast to the vibrant spectacle that unfolded above.


    As the night fell, a cold wind began to blow, carrying with it, what sounded like, the distant howl of a lone wolf. I shivered, my feathers ruffled by the icy blast. I longed for the warmth of my flock, their bodies pressed together against the biting cold. But I knew that I was alone now, and that there was no turning back.


    I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but my mind was filled with images of the past. I saw myself as a young gosling, learning to fly under the watchful eye of my mother. I remembered the thrill of soaring through the sky, the wind rushing past my face. I recalled the joy of finding food, the camaraderie of sharing a meal with my flock.


    When I finally drifted off to sleep, I dreamed of a world where I was not alone. I dreamed of flying alongside my flock, their honking filling the air with a joyous chorus. But when I woke, the dream was shattered, and I was once again alone in the cold, dark night.

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  • The Legend of Super Kitty

    The Legend of Super Kitty

    In the quiet town of Whisker Falls, there was a cat named Miko. Miko wasn’t like the other cats who roamed the alleyways or lounged lazily in the sun. Ever since she was a kitten, she had always been fascinated by the tales of ancient feline warriors—legendary cats who once defended the world from danger, using their sharp reflexes, clever tactics, and most importantly, their mastery of Cat-Fu, a long-lost martial art.

    Every night, while the other cats were fast asleep, Miko would sneak out to the old dojo at the edge of town. It was abandoned now, its walls crumbling, and its training dummies worn out by time. But inside, Miko found ancient scrolls hidden behind the crumbling walls. The scrolls contained drawings of cats in powerful stances, their paws delivering swift punches, their tails striking like whips. They spoke of the *Fist of the Feline*, a mystical technique that only a true protector of the realm could learn.

    Determined to master Cat-Fu, Miko trained every night under the moon’s glow. She practised her balance by walking along the narrowest of fence posts. She sharpened her reflexes by dodging falling leaves and sparring with her shadow. Slowly, she began to grow stronger, her moves becoming quicker and more precise. The dojo, long forgotten by everyone else, became her sanctuary. But as Miko trained, a dark force was stirring beyond Whisker Falls.

    An evil tomcat known as Kuro had returned. Once, Kuro had been a student of the very dojo where Miko now trained, but he had been consumed by greed and hunger for power. Legend said he was banished after trying to steal the secrets of the Fist of the Feline to dominate the world. Now, he had returned with an army of stray cats, bent on conquering every alley, park, and rooftop. One by one, the neighbourhoods fell under Kuro’s control, and soon, Whisker Falls would be next.

    One evening, as Miko meditated in the dojo, she heard the distant sound of yowls. The stray army had arrived. She darted to the highest point in town and saw the chaos unfolding below. Kuro himself led the charge, his yellow eyes glowing with malice.

    Realising she was the town’s only hope, Miko knew it was time. Her training had led to this moment. With a deep breath, she tied on her black belt—earned through hours of practice, dedication, and an unshakeable belief in justice. Then, like the warriors in the scrolls, she leaped into action.

    Miko dashed through the streets, her paws light on the ground, her eyes locked on her goal: Kuro. Along the way, she skillfully dispatched the stray army with swift jabs, quick kicks, and dazzling spins. The townsfolk watched in awe as the once-quiet cat defended them with moves they had never seen before. But she wasn’t done yet.

    She reached the town square, where Kuro stood, smirking at her. “So, you’re the one they’ve been whispering about,” he hissed, his tail flicking behind him. “The so-called guardian of Whisker Falls. Let’s see if you’re worthy of those ancient scrolls.”

    The two circled each other, tension crackling in the air. Miko knew this battle wasn’t just about her town—it was about defending the honour of the dojo, and the legacy of the feline warriors who came before her. Kuro lunged first, his strikes quick and wild. But Miko was faster. With perfect precision, she dodged and countered, her paws moving like lightning.

    As the battle raged on, Kuro grew desperate, unleashing his most powerful attack, the *Shadow Swipe*. But Miko had trained for this. She channelled everything she had learned, tapping into the Fist of the Feline. With a deep breath and the strength of the ancient warriors behind her, she launched into the air, her form graceful and her resolve unbreakable. The wind rushed around her as she prepared her final strike…

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  • One Love

    One Love

    Morning storms through us,
    Midday scorches, hearts ablaze,
    Nightfall kills the flame.

    In the blue birth of dawn, when the world’s breath first stirs, 
    Our love was born, trembling, a whisper in the darkness. 
    The sky yawned, stretching its arms across the sleeping hills, 
    And in that still moment, our hearts were sewn together 
    With the silver thread of morning’s first light, 
    A bond as fragile and fierce as a spider’s web, 
    Glistening with the dew of promise and desire.

    The sun climbed higher, a golden god upon his throne, 
    And our love grew bold, laughing in the face of time. 
    We danced in the fields of youth, wild and unafraid, 
    Our bodies a blaze of summer’s fire, 
    Burning with the heat of a thousand stolen kisses. 
    Each touch was a spark, each glance a flame, 
    And we roared with the lion’s pride, 
    Believing the day would never end.

    But the sun, weary with its labor, began to sink, 
    And shadows crept across the landscape of our hearts. 
    The light softened, turning gold to amber, 
    And in that quiet hour, we spoke of dreams 
    And fears we’d hidden in the noonday glare. 
    Our love, once a roaring river, now slowed to a stream, 
    Gentle and wise, knowing the path it must follow.

    The evening fell, and with it came the cool embrace 
    Of night’s velvet cloak, wrapping us in its quiet. 
    We lay beneath the stars, our fingers entwined, 
    And the world, once so vast, shrank to the space between us. 
    Our love, now a whisper, echoed in the silence, 
    A lullaby sung to the fading light.

    And in the final moments, as the night claimed the sky, 
    Our love, having lived its day, sighed into sleep. 
    The moon smiled down, a mother to the dreaming earth, 
    And we, two shadows merged into one, 
    Became the night itself, 
    One love, one day, 
    Forever written in the stars.

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  • The Art of Forgetting

    The Art of Forgetting

    Ephemeral world,
    Your smile fades with the twilight,
    Yet lingers like stars.

    Ukiyo – Adrift

    In the fleeting world, Ukiyo, where time drifts like cherry blossoms on the wind, everything dissolves into colours that bleed across the sky. There’s no yesterday, no tomorrow, only now—this shimmering, effervescent now.

    A red thread loops around your finger, tangling with mine. We walk on water, toes kissing the surface, ripples of our laughter sending waves to the stars. Your face—so familiar, yet always new, changes with the phases of the moon. Was it love, or just a reflection of love, or perhaps the shadow of a memory of love? But in Ukiyo, does it matter? Here, we are dreamers dreaming of each other, each gaze a promise that will never be fulfilled but always cherished.

    Golden koi swim through the sky, leaving trails of sunlight in their wake. I reach out to touch them, but they slip through my fingers, becoming notes of a song I’ve heard before but can’t remember. Or maybe it’s your voice, whispering secrets that echo through the canyons of my mind, words lost in translation between reality and the dream. Ukiyo is the art of forgetting, of living in the moment where nothing lasts, and everything is forever.

    The streets are a labyrinth, but we never get lost. Instead, we find ourselves at every turn, new versions of us born from the ashes of the last. I paint your portrait on the wind, and the colors dance, merging and dissolving until it’s no longer clear where you end and I begin. We are brushstrokes in an unfinished painting, lovers caught in the act of becoming.

    You smile, but it’s a smile I can’t hold onto. It slips away like sand through an hourglass, yet I don’t mind. In Ukiyo, even the most fleeting moments are eternal. We float, tethered to nothing but the pulse of the universe, a heartbeat that echoes through the endless ocean of stars.

    Love in Ukiyo is like cherry blossoms in spring—beautiful, brief, and impossible to grasp. We don’t need to grasp it. We are the cherry blossoms, the gentle fall, the moment between the breath and the sigh. We are here, together, apart, lost, found, always searching, always knowing, in the eternal now.

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  • Okay, here’s a dumb idea:

    Okay, here’s a dumb idea:

    Head’s all fuzzy now.
    Brain is like a sleepy cat.
    Dumb is kinda fun.

    What!?

    Sometimes, it’s like, really good to be dumb. Like, you know when you’re all smart and stuff and it’s, like, a big brain time? Well, that’s tiring. It’s like, your head is all full of thinky stuff. But when you’re dumb, it’s like, chill. No thinky stuff. Just, like, fun.


    See, when you’re dumb, people don’t expect much. They’re all, “Oh, he’s dumb.” But then, like, you surprise them. You do something smart and they’re all, “Whoa, I didn’t know you could do that!” It’s like, you got ‘em!


    So yeah, being dumb can be kinda cool. It’s like a secret weapon or something.

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