The Library of Ashes
Here, every poem is a smoldering page — whispered confessions, soft ruins, and sacred rage. Wander newest to oldest.
-
Beneath the Skin (B.D. Nightshade)
The words spill from your mouth,heavy as iron,crashing like thunder in the quiet of my soul—a suffocating weight,slamming into my chest,splitting the air with jagged edges.Each syllable is a bladecarving my breath into pieces,lungs strangled,frozen—no trace of oxygen,only the metallic taste of emptiness. Jealousy, thick as tar,coats my insides,a slow burn that curls in my
-
If I Could
If I could snap my fingers —fracture the stars and shift their light,tear threads from the fabric of fate,I’d rewrite the story to soften your ache. I’d twist time backward,coax the shadows to retreat.Return you to laughter unbroken,where the weight was a whisper, not a roar. I’d barter my brightest daysfor the spark in your
-
The Church of You (B.D. Nightshade)
You are my religion—The dogma that guides me,A goddess of flesh and fire.I carve devotion into my bones,Letting your name echo like prayer. Bring me before your altar.Lay me bare beneath your hands.No saints shall save me—Because I crave no salvation.Only the divine ruin of your touch. I am the sinner, the sacrifice,A trembling psalm
-
Oceans Between Us
I had a dream last night— my breath was a whisper, fading, a candle’s last flicker in the wind. Loved ones gathered, shadows in the glow, soft smiles laced with sorrow, hands brushing mine like falling leaves. And then—there was you. Your name stirred the air, and suddenly, time unraveled. Memories, real and unreal, spilled
-
Deeper Still
Love began like whispered air,a feather’s touch, a fleeting glance.A spark that lingered, bright and rare,a hesitant but longing dance. Then laughter wove its silver thread,soft-spoken words, a path we tread.Your voice became my favorite sound,the gravity that pulled me down. Each breath of yours became a hymn,a song that echoed in my chest.I followed,
-
Poetic Bloodline
They call me, Edgar Allan,the way I write these POEms—every line a candle flickering,every stanza a raven’s cry.Nevermore will I denythat shadows are the ink in my veins,turning quills to mourning doves. And I’m on the same path as Plath,breathing in metaphors like oven smoke,watch me, watch me—burn in the bell jar’s glow.Not a rebirth,
-
Through the Splintering Door
Here we stand, on opposite sidesof a door carved by hesitation,its hinges rusted with time,its key lost in the folds of fear. I press against the wood, ear to the grain,listening—your breath, steady, soft,a rhythm I memorize,a melody I ache to answer. Fingertips trace the knots and lines,as if mapping a way through the silence.I
-
Where Love Grows
I have planted my heart in the soil of patience,watered it with quiet devotion,let the sun of your laughterpull life from the roots. No storm will make me wither,no drought of certainty will shake me.I am here, standing steady,waiting for the season where we bloom. I am already all-in,yet I know love is not a
Poetry by Rowan Evans 