The Library of Ashes
Here, every poem is a smoldering page — whispered confessions, soft ruins, and sacred rage. Wander newest to oldest.
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Complexicity
Complexicity (noun)/ˌkäm-plek-ˈsi-sə-tē/The sacred state of being where contradiction and clarity coexist in harmony.A soul spun from wildfire and silk—soft to the touch,but capable of burning everything you thought you knew.It is the art of being both storm and stillness,of speaking in thunder and whisper in the same breath.Not built for simplicity, but for those brave
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Possess Me: Owned by Flame
You said you were possessive,as if that would scare me—as if I didn’t dreamof being claimed like territoryyou’d fight wars over.I don’t flinch when you growl.I lean in.Let your rage drag its clawsacross my willing skin—mark me with want,not apology.Tell me I’m yourswith that edge in your tone—that fire that crackedwhen you cursed his name.I’d
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Colors of Your Soul
I saw the shimmer of salt on your cheek,a falling star caught mid-break,and you whispered through sobs,“I’m broken.”But I don’t see ruin—I see a masterpiece in progress,tiles of heartache and hopewaiting to be placedby someone who knows how to see the beauty in fragments.You are not broken.You are mosaic—a living gallery of stories,stitched in silver
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Sanctified in the Silence
I have watched you in your quiet rising,not just the way you stand taller now—but how your voiceno longer asks for space,it takes it.And I bow to that.There’s a softness you hide like lacebeneath your blade-edged tongue,and I’ve seen it,held it in the way your laughterpulls the corners of your mouthinto something unguarded,something holy.You call
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She Who Burns
She said she was becoming a bitch again—voice sharp, wild with embers,and God, I wanted to kneel.Her rage wasn’t mine,but I caught every sparklike a sinner praying for hellfire,grateful just to be near the heat.She cursed his name with venom in her mouth—a name I could burn for her,and she laughed when I said it
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Unapologetically Biased
You say I’m biased—as if I should be ashamedof loving loud,of choosing youwithout hesitation.But baby, I’m not neutral.I picked a side,planted my flag,and it’s got your name on it.I see you—not just the soft parts,but the sharp ones.Not just the smile,but the scowl that comes before it.And I want all of it.Every version of you.You
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Body Like a Love Letter
Let me read your body like a love letter,Each curve a sentence, each sigh a soft whisper.I’ll taste the scent of your skin, a fragrance of devotion—A language written in breath, in touch, in silence.My lips press softly to your words,Tracing the edges of your story like a lover’s hand,Fingers gliding over your spine—Each curve
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Japan’s Miracle: A Soul Touched by Hope
I remember, March 11th, 2011—When the earth trembled, the world cracked open,A tsunami roared, sweeping villages from the map.A baby, torn from her parents’ arms,Carried into the unknown, where survival seemed impossible.The chaos raged on, relentless,But when the dust settled and the waters receded,On the third day, amidst silent ruins—A cry pierced the stillness—And Japan
Poetry by Rowan Evans 