Poetry by Rowan Evans

Chains and razor blades —
But not the kind that whispers thrill.
No, this is a symphony of screams.
A crimson orchestra,
Conducted by trembling veins
And the bite of steel.

I creep beneath the bleeding moon,
The night drips dread in my wake.
I am judge, jury —
And your sentence is carved in bone.

Do not beg.
Your pleas are hollow prayers,
Eclipsed by the raven’s call.
A dirge of despair,
Rattling through the hollow trees.

I lean in, my breath a venomous kiss.
Listen closely.
Do you remember her face?
The salt-streaked cheeks,
The shattered voice?
She screamed your name —
But only the shadows answered.

My blade hums with her grief,
A perfect edge of requiem steel.
And now, so shall you sing.

But not all at once —
No, we have time.
I will peel away your sins,
Layer by layer,
Until the marrow bears witness.

Your eyes flicker — recognition blooms.
The quiver of a name on your tongue.
But names are nothing here.
Only consequence remains.

Perhaps you think this is justice —
But I am no savior.
I am the lingering rot,
The howl beneath the floorboards.
Paid in gold or grievance,
It matters not.

This is your curtain call.
Each act stitched in suffering,
A requiem of flesh and bone.

And when your voice finally falters —
When the silence swallows your last breath —
You will pray for the comfort of darkness.

But the shadows?

The shadows will already be mine.