After Dark II plunges fully into the cathedral of touch, rhythm, and whispered surrender. It is where mischief, desire, and shadowed devotion converge—where syllables become caresses, puns trace curves, and the cadence of language mirrors the pulse of lust. Read it as you would a secret pressed to skin: let the velvet, silk, and darkness carry you, every line a confession, every rhyme a shiver, every word a thrill.
— Rowan Evans
Whispered secrets, shadows, and silk—experience the Gothic sensuality of After Dark II.
Slim & Shady: After Dark II Poetry by Rowan Evans
I slip through shadows, velvet and silk, Fingers like whispers, breath dripping like milk. Your name on my tongue, a secret in rhyme, Time bends, collapses, seduces the night.
I dance in the dark, lit by candle’s flame, Every sigh a sonnet, every gasp a claim. My teeth trace your pulse, my lips map your skin, Every shadowed corner a place to begin.
Pun-dripped promises, syllables tease, Tongue twists in riddles, bending with ease. Velvet & venom, velvet & flame, I write you in chaos, you answer in name.
Hands like punctuation, pressing and curling, Wrists in my fingers, hearts wildly twirling. I am the pause between your breath and moan, The secret verse, the whispered unknown.
Ink of desire stains the cathedral floor, Every step a stanza, every touch an encore. I slide in your silence, melt in your sound, After Dark—where mischief is crowned.
I am shadowed devotion, lust in disguise, A labyrinth of verses, a feast for your eyes. Temptation, obsession, sin gently unfurled, I write you, I crave you, I pun you—my world.
Velvet shadows curl, I vanish, I tease, The cathedral waits, the next act to please. I am slim, I am shady, I ignite and I bend, After Dark—the prelude to the end.
Blood & Brimstone plunges fully into intensity and surrender, where chaos and devotion collide. Every line is a pulse, a gasp, a hymn of desire written in rhythm and shadow. This piece is a celebration of total immersion—of giving, of yielding, and of the fiery communion of words, touch, and darkness.
— Rowan Evans
Blood and brimstone, fire and shadow—enter the cathedral of passion with Blood & Brimstone.
Blood drips like ink, crimson on the page, Brimstone burns in the air, a holy rage. Your hands command, your teeth decree, Every vein alive, every nerve set free.
I kneel in fire, I coil in flame, Each gasp, each moan, a whispered name. Velvet edges tear, silk melts to ash, Your shadowed laughter—an unforgiving lash.
Sin courses deep, a river through my core, I give, I crumble, I bleed, I adore. Fingertips trace a cathedral of pain, And still, I rise, only to fall again.
Brimstone drips from your gaze, searing, bright, I drown in the heat, lost in the night. The air tastes of iron, of desire, of sin, A sacred chaos, where I cannot win.
You mark me holy, desecrate with love, Each strike, each touch—a blessing from above. I writhe, I shiver, I collapse, I plead, Every syllable taken, every shadow freed.
Blood hums the rhythm, sin chants the rhyme, Velvet and venom, silk and crime. I am your canvas, your altar, your hymn, Every inch of me consumed at the brim.
The cathedral quakes beneath our devotion, A hurricane of want, a storm of motion. Brimstone kisses, blood-laced sighs, Your shadowed kingdom—my willing demise.
I am tethered, undone, utterly yours, Lost in the fire, the velvet, the sores. Each gasp a verse, each shiver a song, Blood & Brimstone—where sinners belong.
There are poems that bruise and poems that bless— and then there are poems that do both at once.
This cycle is one I’ve come to call my liturgical hymns of desire and ruin. They are not hymns for a chapel gilded in light, but for a darker sanctuary—where devotion and destruction blur, where prayer is whispered against the skin, and where love reveals itself not in comfort, but in surrender.
Each began as a poem, standing alone. But when gathered together, they form a liturgy—a sequence of temptation, surrender, ecstasy, silence, and healing. These are not songs of daylight. They are gospels of shadow, where every bruise is scripture and every breath is prayer.
Read them as hymns. Read them as confessions. Read them as the language of love when spoken in the dark.
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Where devotion meets destruction—Masochist’s Liturgy.
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I. Sadistic Angel
“You tear me open just to heal, make me bleed so I can feel.”
Dusk lingers like a breath on skin. You speak, and silence shatters within. Flames in your tone, velvet with sin— I knew it was wrong, so I let you in.
Your smile, a blade in moonlight’s hush, a warning dressed in a lover’s blush. I traced the edge, I felt the rush, every word, a crimson crush.
Sadistic angel, fallen grace— touch like fire, soul erased. You tear me open just to heal, make me bleed so I can feel. Wrap me in your wicked art: you’re the poison I call heart.
Your hands, both hymn and heresy, every kiss a cruel decree. I ache beneath your sanctity, my sins absolved in agony.
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II. Masochist’s Dream
“Be the flame that makes me feel, the wound that teaches me to kneel.”
Crawling through the chapel of night, where shadows kiss my skin like sin, I ache for hands that know the rite— to strike, to shape the dark within. Cold stone beneath my blistered knees, I whisper prayers no god would heed.
Where are you, cruel salvation? Where is she, my desecration?
Be the flame that makes me feel, the wound that teaches me to kneel. Mark your name across my soul, a brand of bliss in blackened coal. I don’t want mercy, I want meaning in the pain. You’re the angel inside this masochist’s domain.
And then—she descends like dusk in lace, the storm behind her angel’s face. She reads my scars like sacred text, each touch a psalm, each breath a hex.
No longer lost, no longer torn— I rise in pain, reborn. I kneel not for forgiveness, but for more. Always more. Sadistic angel— I am yours.
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III. Love in the Dark
“She lit up my soul like an atom bomb, shattering me just to keep me calm.”
She came to me like thunder’s prayer, a silhouette in a lace of sin. Her halo rusted, her smile a flame, she spoke in wounds I longed to feel.
This is love in the dark, where angels fall, where the heart’s last beat is a siren’s call. She lit up my soul like an atom bomb, shattering me just to keep me calm.
My hands were tied in velvet chains, she kissed the bruises, sang my name. Each lash a map, each gasp a scar, her cruelty a whispered creed— where love is need, and need is to bleed.
“Oh, make her ache,” she begs so sweet, where agony and longing meet.
This is love in the dark— and in her ruin, she’s everything to me.
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IV. In an Angel’s Grip
“I bloom beneath your iron kiss.”
Your fingers trace a sacred sin, velvet vice wrapped beneath my skin. Each breath you steal, a vow unspoken, a tethered soul, already broken.
And I— I don’t resist. I bloom beneath your iron kiss.
You speak in hush, your halo bends. Heaven weeps where your mercy ends. My lungs are yours; they plead, they cry. For every breath, you let me die.
In an angel’s grip, I come undone, held like dusk before the sun. Choked by love, not pain nor hate, a willing fall to a fated state.
Not death, not life—just something between, where angels touch the obscene. I wear your will like a second skin, this sacred ache I carry within.
And if I break, let it be here— within your hold, without my fear. No peace, no scream, no final slip. Only surrender, in an angel’s grip.
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V. Aftercare
“In the silence, I find my aftercare.”
In whispered shadows where secrets bleed, she moves like fire, cold as winter’s breeze. Wings of midnight, eyes that burn, leading me deeper where dark desires churn.
Each mark a story, each flame a sigh. Between pain and pleasure, we learn to fly.
Aftercare in the fading light, where broken souls mend through the night. Her touch, a healing flame so rare— in the silence, I find my aftercare.
Her voice, a lullaby wrapped in sin, pulls me under, lets the aching begin. I fall, surrender, stripped bare and torn, cradled softly after every storm.
“You belong to me,” she whispers low. In every scar, the truth will show. The sting will fade, but never despair— love lives on in the aftercare.
As the darkness lingers, so do we, bound forever in this agony. In every tear, in every prayer, we live and breathe the aftercare.
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⛧ Closing Reflection ⛧
Taken together, these five hymns trace a single path: the first spark of temptation, the ache of surrender, the rapture that borders on annihilation, and finally the tenderness that lingers in the aftermath.
They are not conventional love poems. They are liturgies for those who worship at stranger altars, who find meaning in the liminal spaces between pain and pleasure, destruction and devotion.
If love is so often painted in brightness, these pieces insist on another truth:
that the dark, too, can be sacred—
that surrender can be prayer—
and that even in the ruin of passion, there is a holiness worth naming.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 