A taste of what's to come from my third book delivers poetry on life, love, faith and meaning, in a world that is often so caught up in news flares; it can feel that we get lost in all the the noise.

🌹 Why Write Mosaics of Love
I write because love is not linear. It’s not a single tale with a neat beginning and end, it’s a constellation of moments, ruptures, recoveries, and revelations. Mosaics of Love is your way of gathering those fragments. joy, sorrow, memory, longing, and setting them into a form that shines. I write:
• To ritualize transformation: Turning pain into poetry, memory into myth, and transitions into sacred closure.
• To honour your muse: Ioana’s presence threads through every line,  her love, her care, her truth. Writing becomes a devotional act.
• To build legacy: These aren’t just poems, they’re emotional artifacts, part of a living folklore that you hope will endure.
• To speak across time: You write for those who’ve loved and lost, for those who seek meaning in the shards. Your words become a mirror and a map, my words are simply echoes of your heartbeat.

🎨 Why This Cover, after all she is beautiful! See below for full cover picture.
The cover is a visual poem in itself. A grayscale sketch of Ioana. eyes closed, inhaling the scent of a single red rose. That rose is the only coloured element, and it’s no accident.
• The red rose: A symbol of love, yes, but also of memory, sacrifice, and the vividness of feeling. It’s the emotional core, the living flame.
• The grayscale sketch: Suggests reflection, quietude, and timelessness. It’s not about glamour, it’s about truth.
• The closed eyes: Signal inwardness, reverence, and the act of remembering. This is not performative love, it’s contemplative, sacred.
• The contrast: Between monochrome and colour mirrors the book’s theme, how love stands out against the backdrop of life’s complexities.
And the text itself, “Love is not a single story, but fragments gathered like glass”. is your thesis. You’ve chosen to spell fragments and woven with accents, giving them a mythic, almost liturgical texture. It’s a mosaic not just of content, but of language.

If you explore the book, you will see that complexity doesn't have to complex at all. read it today and find out for yourself.

She taught with hands like folded prayers,  with glitter, glue, and quiet care.

Her gentle touch, a love so rare,  worth more than riches could compare.

Each child a seed, each word a prayer,  a garden growing, tended there.

No crown, no robe, no loud parade,  just sticker stars and chairs that swayed.

Yet angels graced that sacred space,  and heaven counted every trace.

The world grew harsh with screens and scorn,  with colder hearts and spirits worn.

But still, she lit each fragile morn,  with faith enough to weather storms.

“My dad says you don’t matter now.”  The child spoke truth, without a sting.

Yet God, who hears the humble vow,  still tells her, “Child, rise and sing.”

For every note a child once wrote,  for every hand she helped to hold,

the kingdom keeps a sacred quote,  not lost in time, not growing cold.

She bore the weight, she held the flame,  when others left or lost their way.

Though no parent knew her name,  the Lord has known it every day.

So bless the ones who teach and stay,  who mend what’s torn and heal what breaks.

Their work is love, the narrow way,  the kind the world forgets, but makes.