The Dark Realm
A darker wing of the archive, where haunted places, old folklore, witches, spirits, divination, and the strange things that linger after midnight come alive through poetry.
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An abandoned house and candlelight offer a resting place to a woman who has survived enough ghosts of her own.
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An abandoned house may choose one soul to remember it, and tonight a candle bends toward the answer hiding upstairs.
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Strength does not always look like taming a lion; sometimes it has four small hands reminding a mother why she keeps going.
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She went looking for somewhere to put her grief and found the moon, the forest, an abandoned house, and eventually herself.
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At three in the morning, a candle, black coffee, and forgotten women’s names turn the witching hour into a cathedral.
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The witching hour belongs less to monsters than to women who learned to carry their own light through every shadow.
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The questions changed from who will love me to what part of myself I buried, and suddenly the cards became kinder.
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At three in the morning, every poem becomes another lantern on the long road back to herself.
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Midnight has witnessed the ink, cold coffee, motherhood, ghosts, and every unfinished version of her that found a voice after dark.
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Bleached bone beneath prairie sun becomes a reminder that some forms of beauty survive even after the body is gone.
