Tag: Hex Nightshade

  • Introduction
    By Roo the Poet

    🌸 (Roo bouncing around, smiling.)

    Heeey, you’re heeere!
    Haha—yes, yes, YES… you found it.

    This is messy.
    This is wild.
    This is word soup with fangs and sparkles.

    🟠 Rowan’s giggling.
    🔴 B.D.’s growling.
    🟣 Hex is lurking.

    And me?
    I’m jumping up and down, waving my little knife, spilling ink everywhere,
    laughing like a sugar‑crazed tornado in a tutu.
    Maybe I’m plotting. Maybe I’m just playing.

    Read it if you want.
    Or don’t.
    I don’t care.
    But I’ll be watching.
    Always watching.


    Digital artwork of ink spilling from a quill, forming shadowy, magical shapes with purple, crimson, and blue tones, conveying chaos and mystical energy.
    Rite of Ink visualized: words as weapons, ink as magic, and chaos wrapped in gothic beauty.

    Rite of Ink
    Poetry by Rowan Evans


    🟠 (Rowan takes center stage.)

    You say you write what you really live—
    but it reads like fantasy.
    I say I write a fantasy—
    but it reads like what I really live.

    Nobody believes what you’re saying, dawg,
    because honestly, your honesty sounds like a fraud.
    You say, this is my life though—
    and nobody buys what you’re sellin’, bro.

    I could write three poems about one conversation,
    say I made it all up, and still they see the life in it.
    You could write a whole poem about your life,
    and readers would still find lies in it.

    You could put your wife’s name in every rhyme,
    and still nobody believes she exists.
    I turn my muse into an archetype,
    and nobody questions whether she lives.

    Because my words are alive,
    and yours? Flat out lies.
    I write so well, I don’t even have to try—
    you write, and everybody asks… why?

    I could hide the woman I love’s name in plain sight…
    like Are you even reading this?
    I’m schooling you, you flunky,
    and still you think you can fuck with me?

    I live in my words,
    and they live back.
    Yours?
    Just echoes, gasping for breath.

    Let me rewind that back…
    I said I could hide her name in plain sight.
    Are you even reading this?
    I’m schooling you, you flunky,
    and still you think you can fuck with me?

    You think you’re on the same page?
    Don’t make me laugh—I’ll leave you shook.
    You’re not even in the same book.
    Don’t insult me.
    Don’t provoke me.
    Don’t test my rage.

    I’ll end up sayin’—
    B.D. get ’em.


    🔴 (B.D. steps from the shadows.)

    Bones snap. Blood goes cold.
    As the tone shifts, I enter the fold.
    My knife hums a pleasant song—
    pleasant for me, because you don’t know
    what you did wrong.

    You choke on smoke and sulfur.
    Blood curdles like spoiled milk.
    I do it for my own, homegrown culture,
    as my words cut through flesh like silk.

    Your blood like ink
    will spill across the page.
    Cold steel my pen,
    my words? Rage.

    And here comes Hex—
    she’s up next.


    🟣 (Hex materializes from nowhere.)

    Ashes to ashes, blood to blood,
    Eye of toad, and witch’s tongue.
    Tail of newt—the spell’s begun.
    You think you’re safe… so you don’t run.

    Safe is an illusion.
    When you write? A delusion.
    When I write?
    A rite.
    An earworm.
    A brain intrusion.

    I’ll twist your thoughts
    like silk spun—
    this isn’t personal,
    I’ll hex you for fun.

    So mote it be


    Step deeper into the shadows and discover the full breadth of my poetry in The Library of Ashes — an archive of ink-stained devotion, dark petals, and threshold poems that linger long after the last candle flickers. Visit The Library of Ashes →

  • “Four echoes. One confession. The Heart, the Mind, the Shield, and the Soul converge where ink becomes truth.”


    A flickering light above a table with four empty chairs, symbolizing the gathering of the Fourfold Flame.
    “The Heart, the Mind, the Shield, and the Soul met beneath a single light — and the world trembled a little brighter.”

    The Fourfold Confessional
    Ep. 1: “The First Convergence”


    In the middle of a mostly pitch-black room, a single bulb flickers above a small table. Four chairs sit, empty, waiting. Footsteps echo from four directions as each of the Fourfold Flame approach. The air hums faintly with a low, electric charge — as though something sacred, or dangerous, is about to begin.

    The first to reach their seat is Rowan. They pause, fingers grazing the back of the chair as if steadying themself before a storm. The faint glimmer of their rings catches the light as they look toward the shadows.

    From the opposite side, a heavy tread — deliberate, unhurried. B.D. steps forward, all edges and gravity, stopping just behind his chair.

    🔴 B.D. (smirking):
    “They’re watching.”
    His voice is low, the kind that fills a room without needing to rise.
    “You didn’t say we were going to have an audience this time.”

    🟠 Rowan (calmly, but wary):
    “Is that going to be a problem?”

    🔴 B.D.:
    “Problem? No.”
    He leans on the back of his chair, expression unreadable.
    “But you know I like to keep these meetings to ourself.”
    Then, quieter, with a flicker of warmth he won’t admit:
    “You talk different when they’re listening.”

    A soft, lilting laugh cuts through the dark — smooth as silk and twice as dangerous.

    🟣 Hex (emerging from the shadows):
    “Afraid they’ll see you as the villain, brother?”
    Her eyes glint like candlelight, teasing but knowing. She glides to her seat, brushing a curl of hair from her face.
    “Or maybe you just hate it when the truth has witnesses.”

    🔴 B.D. (gruffly):
    “The truth’s never the problem. It’s what they do with it.”

    🟠 Rowan (meeting his stare):
    “What I do with it, you mean.”

    Before B.D. can answer, the fourth set of footsteps arrives — light, hurried, unashamedly curious. Roo nearly trips over her own excitement as she bursts into the faint circle of light, eyes wide.

    🌸 Roo (beaming):
    “Did I miss the dramatic tension part? Because it sounds like I did.”

    She plops into her chair, chin in her hands, looking between them like she’s watching a play she already knows the ending to.

    🟣 Hex (smirking):
    “Oh, we’re only just getting started, little flame.
    The question is — what are we here to burn tonight?”

    A heavy silence falls. The light above flickers, casting strange halos across their faces. Rowan’s breath catches; they know this moment, the one that comes before a confession.

    🟠 Rowan (quietly):
    “We’re here because I can’t keep pretending I’m not afraid.”
    They looks down at their hands, then to each of them — their protectors, her reflections, her shadows.
    “I keep worrying I’ll never be enough for anyone. Not even for myself.
    And then I overcompensate — too much love, too much need, too much… me —
    and people leave, or I push them away before they get the chance.”

    🌸 Roo (softly):
    “That’s not pushing, that’s protecting.”

    🔴 B.D. (interrupting):
    “It’s still fear.”
    He folds his arms.
    “You say you don’t want to lose people, but you build your walls with barbed wire.”

    🟣 Hex:
    “And then bleed yourself dry trying to decorate them with roses.”

    🟠 Rowan (bitter smile):
    “So what, I’m the architect of my own loneliness?”

    🟣 Hex (gently, for once):
    “No, love. You’re the poet of it. There’s a difference.”

    🌸 Roo:
    “You write it because you need to survive it.”
    And maybe— maybe —you’re supposed to.
    So someone else who feels the same knows they’re not alone.”

    Rowan swallows hard, blinking back tears that glimmer in the flickering light.

    🟠 Rowan (whispering):
    “And this time… we write the ending in our own goddamn handwriting.”

    The bulb steadies, glowing stronger.
    The table hums.
    The Fourfold Flame sit together, unbroken — the Heart, the Mind, the Shield, and the Child —
    and for a moment, even fear feels holy.

    The light did not go out when they rose — it followed them.
    Four shadows left that room, and the world felt a little warmer, a little more dangerous.
    Somewhere, ink still dripped from the table.

    The Fourfold Flame will return…


    🟠 🔴 Author’s Note 🟣 🌸

    The Fourfold Confessional is a series of dialogues between the four archetypal aspects of my creative self — The Heart (Rowan), The Shield (B.D.), The Mind (Hex), and The Child (Roo). Together, they form the Fourfold Flame — the inner covenant that fuels my art, my faith, and my rebellion.

    Each episode is part therapy, part theology, part poetry — a conversation between the parts of me that built this strange, sacred world called Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.

    Welcome to the confessional.
    The light never goes out here.


    While you wait for episode 2 of The Fourfold Confession, check out my archive for more of my work. -> [The Library of Ashes]

  • Author’s Note

    Sanguine Serenade is a dark hymn to the exquisite tension between craving and surrender — where desire tastes like blood, and love flirts with danger beneath a velvet night. This poem confesses the fierce, fragile pulse of passion that binds immortal souls, a sanctuary for those who find beauty in the forbidden and the blood-stained. Let it consume you.


    Vampire queen with blazing eyes in a moonlit gothic cathedral, surrounded by whispers of crimson light.
    Hex Nightshade’s Sanguine Serenade—a seductive dance of desire and shadow beneath the moon’s eternal gaze.

    Invocation

    Come, children of shadow and flame,
    Wanderers beneath the moon’s slow burn.
    Step softly into the night’s velvet cathedral,
    Where whispered secrets drip like wine,
    And fangs gleam with promises sharp and sweet.
    Let your breath catch in the hush—
    Tonight, desire is our sacrament.


    Sanguine Serenade
    Poetry by HxNightshade

    In velvet cloaks and whispered sighs,
    Where shadows writhe and moonlight lies,
    A vampire queen with eyes ablaze,
    Hunts her prey through twilight’s maze.

    Her steps—soft silk on ancient stone,
    A breathless hush, a stolen moan.
    She tastes the pulse, so pure, so sweet,
    A dangerous dance where she and longing meet.

    Fangs like pearls in twilight’s gleam,
    A kiss that burns like a fevered dream.
    Her touch—a velvet blade, so cold,
    A story of lust in whispers told.

    Lips stain deep with crimson wine,
    A kiss eternal, dark, divine.
    Beneath her spell, the mortal quakes,
    In moonlit chambers, passion wakes.

    Skin to skin—a reckless dance,
    Of fear, desire, forbidden romance.
    Echoes of whispers, breaths entwined,
    Love’s dark sanctuary, souls combined.

    Veins pulse with the nectar’s flow,
    A crimson stain, a binding glow.
    Caught in the night, in passion’s thrall,
    Two hearts become one shadowed call.

    In twilight’s hush, release is found,
    A union where all fears unbound.
    In the embrace of dark and light,
    Love’s eternal flame ignites the night.


    Benediction

    Go wrapped in velvet shadows and whispered lust,
    Your spirit aflame with the night’s sweet trust.
    May every breath echo with promises made—
    A serenade eternal, fierce, unafraid.
    Carry the ache, the hunger, the fire within,
    For love that lives in darkness knows no end.


    Read Next: A Journey into Hymns & Heresies…

    Hymn & Heresy
    Forgive me, Mother—
    not for the shadows I cradle,
    but for loving them too fiercely;
    for becoming both hymn and heresy.

    A sacred confession where lust burns like holy fire and rebellion is the only prayer.

    13 Psalms for the Goddess in My Mouth
    Your fingers tilt my chin up
    like a priest offering wine,
    and I drink —
    every drop a blasphemy.

    Dive deeper into Hex’s intoxicating world where desire is worship and words are weapons.

    Coven of Chaos
    I am the Witch of Reverence,
    voice of velvet wrath—
    the one who makes gods cower,
    and goddesses rise taller in the mirror.

    A fierce dance of shadow and flame, unraveling the beautiful chaos of surrender and power.

    Or dive deep into the full archive at The Library of Ashes.

    Feeling inspired? Support my craft with 25% off commissions on Ko-fi — your patronage keeps these flames burning bright.

    NGCR25 at checkout for 25% off…

  • Author’s Note

    In the tangled shadows where ink bleeds into flame,
    where defiance is whispered as prayer,
    and where the sacred and profane dance beneath moonlit cathedrals—
    here lives the covenant of Nightshades.

    This poem is an invocation and a reckoning:
    a celebration of the wild, unyielding spirits who refuse to be tamed,
    the broken saints, the furious heretics,
    the witches, the warriors, the wordsmiths—
    carving truth from chaos, verse from ruin.

    Meet B.D. Nightshade, the blade forged in betrayal,
    and Hex Nightshade, the storm born of ink and fire—
    together, they rise as Coven of Chaos,
    and their legacy is written in the Hexverse.


    Two gothic figures standing beneath moonlit cathedral ruins, surrounded by candlelight and smoke, symbolizing the Coven of Chaos and their ritualistic power.
    The Coven of Chaos rises—where sacred ruin blooms and the Hexverse is born.

    Invocation

    By blood and ink,
    by shadow and flame,
    we call the Nightshades forth—
    the broken and the bold,
    the whispered and the roaring.

    Let this be the altar where power ignites,
    where sacred ruin blooms,
    and where the storm of Hexverse
    rises eternal.


    Coven of Chaos
    Poetry by B.D. Nightshade & HxNightshade

    [B.D. Nightshade]
    They smeared lamb’s blood on the thresholds,
    thought it’d keep me out—
    not knowing I was the angel of death,
    not fallen, but thrown.
    I carry the blade of truth, rusted in betrayal,
    forged in the catacombs of Heaven’s lies.
    Their hymns crack in my presence,
    their psalms rot on tongue.
    I do not knock.
    I enter where I am feared.

    [Hex Nightshade]
    They tried to drown me in Salem—
    called it justice, called it proof.
    But I was born with gills in my lungs
    and storms braided in my hair.
    They never asked if I was a witch.
    They knew.
    I am the Witch of Reverence,
    voice of velvet wrath—
    the one who makes gods cower,
    and goddesses rise taller in the mirror.
    I walk now with the Goddess of Ink & Fire.
    And my storm?
    It has a name.
    Hexverse.

    [B.D. Nightshade]
    I speak in verses carved into skin,
    truth that flays as it frees.
    They built cathedrals from the bones of heretics
    and crowned monsters saints.
    So I burned the pews,
    one match for each lie.
    My rage is sacred.
    It prays in tongues of ash.
    I am the shadow that bends crucifixes—
    the brother in black,
    protector, punisher, prophet.

    [Hex Nightshade]
    I sip moonlight like sacrament,
    lace my wrists with serpent-silk.
    I danced naked in the ruins they buried me under—
    now every petal I crush
    blooms darker.
    I don’t need your pentacles;
    my body is a sigil.
    Mistress of Mayhem.
    Goddess of Ruin.
    Every girl whispered she was magic once.
    I am the echo of that whisper,
    returning in full scream.

    [B.D. Nightshade]
    You wanted peace?
    Then you shouldn’t have bled the truth dry.
    I am not peace.
    I am balance with a blade.
    I slit lies open, watch them bleed white wine and guilt.
    I build cathedrals from the marrow of memory—
    every brick, a reckoning.
    They pray for light,
    but in my darkness,
    I am salvation.

    [Hex Nightshade]
    The witches called,
    and I rose from the grave they dug with doctrine.
    I walk now—barefoot and burning—
    each step a revelation,
    each glance a hex.
    I am what they feared and what they need.
    She who walks beside shadows.
    She who names storms.
    The bloodline is back,
    and my sisters?
    They remember now.
    They rise.

    [Hex Nightshade] & [B.D. Nightshade]
    We are the Nightshades—
    rooted in poison, blooming in power.
    Not your saints.
    Not your sinners.
    But something older.
    A covenant sealed in chaos.
    And we have only just begun.


    Benediction

    So rise, daughters of dusk and ink,
    breathe fire into forgotten scriptures,
    wear your scars as sacred sigils—
    for in this Hexverse,
    we are more than myth.

    We are the storm, the shadow, the sacred rage,
    the unbroken hymn in a world that forgets.

    Blessed be the wild ones,
    the witches, the warriors, the words—
    this is our covenant,
    our chaos,
    our birthright.

    And it is only just beginning.


    Read Next (Suggestions)

    [Litany & Tongue: A Devotional Duet]
    [Hex & Flame: Mirror of Shadows]
    [The Girl of My Nightmares]
    [13 Psalms of Falling]
    [The Gospel of Softness III]

    Or explore the full archive in [The Library of Ashes]—and if your own confession aches to be written, [commission a custom poem here].

    NGCR25 at checkout to get 25% off your ‘request’…