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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Sisters in Poetry III
I have heard the voices in the ink—Sylvia, the bell jar still echoing,her sorrow stitched into every breath I take.She speaks not in screams,but in a hush that silences the soul: “I shattered myself to show youwhat beauty can exist in broken things.My metaphors were knives and mirrors—and I turned them all inwardso you wouldn’t…
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Sisters in Poetry II
In the shadows of ink, where ghosts still linger,Sylvia, Anne, Emily, Sappho—poetesses, each a flame,Each a whisper in the wind that haunts the night,Each carving truth in starlit veins.Sylvia, whose words cut through the air,A sharp, sorrowed edge that carved despair into the sky,A dance of madness and brilliance,Her bell jar—her curse, her art, her…
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Sisters in Poetry
In the darkened corridors of verse, where shadows weave, Sylvia and Anne dance, their words a somber hymn, Echoes of their pain and passion that we conceive, Their struggles with demons, their voices grim.Sylvia, with her haunting gaze of blue, Wrote of a world caught in despair’s tight clutch, In her “Ariel,” the fire of…
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When She Says I’m Hers
If she whispers, I melt.If she commands, I kneel.It doesn’t take much—a glance, a breath,a shift in the weight of her silence—and I’m undone.There’s a kind of gravity in her,like the moon to my tides.I rise for her, crash for her,shape myself around the contoursof the world she’s trying to survive.I’ve listened to her sob,sat…
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Ashes of Heaven (B.D. Nightshade)
I, the fallen, wear my wings of ash,A ruin of purity, torn and frayed,Once bathed in light, now draped in black,I seek the fire where Heaven decayed.They call me traitor, rebel, lost,An angel damned, forsaken, broken—Yet here I stand, at Heaven’s gate,A fallen star with words unspoken.The seraphs sing their hollow hymns,Their praises drip with…
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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…
Poetry by Rowan Evans 