Poetry by Rowan Evans

They call me…
The hush before the thunder’s wail,
A phantom’s breath, thin as a veil.
A specter crawling through hollow halls,
A presence felt when darkness calls.

They call me…
The weight that settles in the chest,
A creeping hand, a hollow guest.
The sound that screams without a voice,
A lullaby stripped of every choice.

I slither in when the world holds still,
Filling the void with something chill.
Not a whisper, not a sigh—
Just the echo of what’s left behind.

You fear the dark? No, that’s a lie.
You fear the quiet where horrors lie.
Where memories claw and shadows creep,
Where silence stirs what should not speak.

They call me…
The graveyard hush, the stifled breath,
The space between life and death.
The weight of things you try to hide,
The dread that lingers deep inside.

They call me… Silence.