Wrath ignites like wildfire. This sonnet captures the consuming power of anger and the destructive blaze of vengeance.
Wrath – the fifth of the 7 Deadly Sonnets by Rowan Evans, exploring fury and vengeance.
7 Deadly Sonnets Wrath
A tempest rages deep within my veins, A fury fierce, unyielding, set alight; Each heartbeat hammers, bound by blood-stained chains, With vengeance locked behind my teeth tonight.
I am the storm, the howl, the broken flame, The lightning bolt that strikes without regret, And scorches all who dare to speak my name, As wrath consumes my heart with deadly debt.
The taste of anger, bitter and so raw, A poison coiled and ready for release, But vengeance only feeds what hatred saw, A fire that neither soothes nor brings me peace.
In wrath, I am consumed, a beast unchained, By fire’s touch, my soul’s forever stained.
The 7 Deadly Sonnets
I. Lust My pulse quickens at each whispered breath, desires draping the air like silken chains. ‘Lust,’ the first of the 7 Deadly Sonnets, explores the fevered, consuming hunger that blurs the lines between passion and peril.
II. Gluttony ‘Gluttony’ devours more than food—it consumes the soul. The second of the 7 Deadly Sonnets explores endless craving, the hunger for excess, and the void it leaves behind.
III. Greed ‘Greed’ reveals the hunger that is never sated—the clutching hands, the endless thirst for more, and the hollowness left behind. The third of the 7 Deadly Sonnets.
IV. Sloth ‘Sloth’ captures the quiet paralysis of apathy, the weight of inaction, and the suffocating stillness that can consume the soul. The fourth of the 7 Deadly Sonnets.
In every myth, there is a cathedral of ruin; in every man who calls himself monster, a prayer that was never answered. This is the confessional of a city’s orphaned ghost — sworn not to salvation, but to the endless catechism of vengeance. This is…
A cathedral of shadows, where devotion wears bruises and hope decays into prayer.
☽The Vigil of the Broken Saint☾ Prose by Rowan Evans
I keep vigil in a cathedral of bone and sorrow — arches aching heavenward, ribs of stone bruised by night’s embrace. The city itself becomes my chapel: alleys the dark nave, gargoyles my silent witnesses, gargling rain and secrets.
I wear grief like a monk’s habit, dyed black as confession and heavier than sin. Each night, I descend into prayer not with folded hands but with clenched fists — my psalms spoken in bruises and fractured breath.
The stained glass here is cracked beyond repair: memories of a pearl necklace scattering like small white prayers on asphalt; a boy’s scream swallowed by gun smoke. Their colors are gone — only shards remain, catching no dawn, only moonlight and guilt.
This city does not absolve. Its concrete saints are headless, the altar cold as a tombstone. I press my forehead to it anyway, blood wetting stone: a silent offering for a father who cannot forgive, a mother who cannot speak.
Pain becomes sacrament. Every scar is a prayer bead, every fracture an unanswered supplication. The creed etched in marrow: Vengeance is devotion. Sacrifice is absolution. And when my knees ache from the stone, I rise still unredeemed.
Yet night after night, I return. Drawn back to this ruined chapel by ghosts draped in shadow and sorrow. The gargoyles never weep, but I have learned to cry behind the cowl — hot salt hidden in darkness.
Even the bats above seem to mourn with me, their wings whispering sermons in a language of hunger and hollow echo. My breath fogs in the cold, each exhale a psalm of stubborn defiance.
There is no redemption here. Only the soft rot of hope turned grave-cold and the ache that will not leave. Still, I remain — bruised, unholy, unrepentant — because this, too, is devotion: to rise, even damned, and walk the city’s labyrinth once more.
☽ Benediction ☾
May the ruin remember why it loved you. May the bruises become scripture. And though no salvation comes, may your broken vigil remain holy in its endlessness.
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Content Warning: This poem contains explicit depictions of violence, abuse, and retribution. It touches on sensitive subjects such as grooming, sexual assault, complicity in the face of injustice, human trafficking, and war crimes. Readers should proceed with caution, as the themes explored in this work may be triggering for some. This poem is intended for mature audiences and is a work of fiction that seeks to explore vengeance, justice, and the consequences of unchecked power and harm.
Please read with caution, and know that this series is not intended to glorify violence but to reflect the pain, rage, and consequences that often go unnoticed or unpunished in the real world.
Seven more shadows stir. Seven more await their fate.
The knives are fewer now— Not from mercy, but from use. Their edges whisper memories, Still stained with unrepentance.
Tonight, the table returns. Seven chairs, seven fates, Seven shadows dragged from hiding. Each thinks they can run. Each forgot— Vengeance remembers.
First: The Groomer Teacher He taught literature like seduction. Underlined consent with a wink, Graded innocence on a curve. Gave praise with too many hands. Now he’s pinned beneath a blackboard, His lessons returned in silence and steel. I staple every love note he wrote to skin He once dared touch. He says he only wanted to inspire. So I make him inspirational art. Blood as ink. Truth as canvas.
Second: The Human Resources Manager She passed around cupcakes on birthdays, But passed over every complaint. Buried trauma in manila folders, Told victims to be professional. Now I file her under complicit. Each page of silence becomes a lash. I build her a cubicle from every name she erased. Inside it, her voice cannot leave— Just like theirs never did.
Third: The ICE Agent He wore cruelty like a uniform. Said “orders” while dragging toddlers away. Stamped paperwork soaked in lullabies. Built cages and called it law. Now I lock him in a cell of memory— Walls made from lullabies interrupted. I tattoo their names on his arms So he never forgets who he unmade. The key melts in front of him. He screams like a father now.
Fourth: The Frat Brother His laughter echoes in solo cups. Shot after shot, shame drowned in alcohol. He called her a myth, a mistake, As if blackouts erased guilt. Now he drinks from a bottle Filled with her memory—undiluted, unforgiving. Each swallow burns the truth into his bones. I leave him slumped in silence, Party over, cameras rolling. Replay on loop.
Fifth: The “Pick-Me” Woman She climbed their shoulders By stepping on broken backs. Called survivors jealous, Said they “wanted the attention.” Now I seat her in a hall of mirrors. Each one shows the woman she betrayed. I peel back her words until only envy remains. She cries for her reputation— Too bad it’s the only thing she ever loved.
Sixth: The Landlord Slumlord He charged gold for rot. Turned homes into health hazards, Blamed poverty for his greed. Called heat a luxury. Now he shivers in the dark, Air thick with mold and vermin songs. I padlock every exit with unpaid rent. He begs for a repair request. I send rats instead.
Seventh: The War Criminal in a Suit Never fired a gun, But his pen was a missile. Signed cities into rubble, Children into statistics. Called it “strategy.” Now I drop silence like bombs. His ears ring with names he never learned. I dress him in oil-slick skin, Force him to drink from the well he poisoned. His empire burns with no flag to wave.
The knives are dull now. The flames are tall. Seven new candles flicker— Not for them. Never for them.
There is no forgiveness In the blade’s reflection. Only truth, And the hand that dares to hold it.
But the dark is never empty. Seven more shadows stir. Seven more await their fate. And I—B.D. Nightshade wait, too— Patient as the grave.
Author’s Note: Vengeance is a complex, deeply personal concept. In Table of Judgment: Volume III, I explore the idea of retribution—not as a simple act of revenge, but as a reckoning for those who have inflicted harm, whether through direct action or silent complicity. These figures are not faceless villains, but representations of broader societal ills: the abusers, the enablers, the silent bystanders. The blade of justice is sharp, and the flames of truth burn without mercy.
This poem is a meditation on justice—both personal and collective—and the long-lasting impact of those who perpetuate harm. It is a reminder that the past cannot be erased, and the consequences of one’s actions follow them into the dark. While this work is dark and intense, it is also an outlet for those who have felt powerless, a space where the scales of justice can be balanced, even if only in the realm of imagination and poetry.
Content Warning This poem contains graphic depictions of violence, abuse, sexual assault, systemic injustice, revenge, and trauma. It explores themes of righteous vengeance, horror, and divine retribution through a dark, poetic lens. Reader discretion is strongly advised, especially for survivors of abuse or trauma.
The blades have rusted since last we met. But rust only sharpens resolve. The table returns— Its wood soaked in memory, Its restraints hungry for guilt. Justice was not a one-night feast. No—monsters breed in silence, And I am silence undone.
First: The Foster Parents She called it “a blessing”—that monthly check. Said the child should be grateful for a roof. But the bruises weren’t from beams, And the screams didn’t echo from joy. He locked the child in closets lined with scripture. She washed the blood from his fists, Then set the table like nothing was broken. Now they sit strapped together— Hands sewn to each other’s shame. I force-feed them silence in spoonfuls, Play lullabies of sobs they ignored. The belt he used now flays his own tongue. Her eyes forced open to watch— Just like she used to.
Second: The Revenge Porn Ex He thought power was pressing “upload.” Framed her in pixels, called it “freedom.” She lost everything. He gained followers. Now he’s the exhibit. Naked and looped on every wall, His body becomes his prison, Each image a tattoo of consent denied. His screams aren’t blurred. His shame isn’t edited. And no one comes to take it down.
Third: The Conversion Therapist She laid hands not to heal, But to erase. Told queer teens their love was illness, That God would only listen if they bled. She sang psalms while they shattered. Now she kneels on broken glass, The verses she preached carved into mirrors, So every reflection mocks her grace. Her tongue sewn to a rosary, Each bead a life she bent— Snapped straight until they broke.
Fourth: The Trigger-Happy Cop He saw skin and called it threat. Saw fear and drew steel. Said the bullet was “procedure,” Said the boy “matched the description.” But the body was innocent. The silence, deafening. Now he’s pinned beneath a spotlight, His badge melted down, Dripped into his eyes— So he sees, For the first time, What his justice really looks like. No shield. No radio. Only the weight of names carved Into his hollowed chest— Each one a verdict he’ll never escape.
Fifth: The Therapist Who Crossed the Line She called him “safe.” He called her “special.” Said no one else would understand. Touched her scars with hunger, Then blamed her for bleeding. Now he lies on his own couch, Sedated in shame. Every time he closes his eyes, She speaks— And he listens, finally. Every “I love you” he twisted Now chokes him like a noose.
Sixth: The Wealthy Rapist He wore tailored suits and courtroom smiles. Said she lied, Then paid her to disappear. But guilt doesn’t take a check. Now he’s stripped of silk and silence, His name stitched to every wound she hid. I press gavel-shaped brands into his chest, Each one a truth he tried to bury. Now, he’s the story. And she’s finally free.
Seventh: The Online Predator He typed sweet lies in the dark, Promised safety, then devoured it. Left young girls gutted by shame. He called it “just talking.” Now, I bind his fingers to the keyboard— Force him to scroll through every name, Every cry he deleted. I turn the screen into a mirror. He types apology after apology, And each one burns his skin.
And me— I stand again. The blade reborn. Seven new candles lit. Not for forgiveness. Not for peace. But so no one forgets. The table is not justice. It’s memory made flesh.
And I am still here. Unholy. Unkind. Unapologetic. The shadow that watches When the system looks away.
Author’s Note: This piece was written as an act of catharsis and creative reclamation. “Table of Judgment: Volume II” channels the voice of B.D. Nightshade—my poetic embodiment of wrath, vengeance, and divine justice. It is not meant to glorify violence, but to confront the horrors too often dismissed, silenced, or ignored by society and the systems meant to protect us.
Writing this was painful—but necessary. If you made it through, thank you for bearing witness. And if you saw a piece of your own pain reflected here, I see you. You are not alone. — Rowan Evans
Poetry by Rowan Evans 