Perilous Poetry by Oli at Inkitt

Summary

When the world finally dimmed, it didn’t happen with an explosion or a scream. It happened quietly, like a candle guttering out in a room no one remembered to leave. The cities sank into their own shadows, the sky bruised itself purple and black, and the last traces of warmth retreated into memory. What remained were ruins — not just of buildings, but of language, of tenderness, of the small human rituals that once kept the dark at bay. Yet even in the collapse, something refused to be silenced. These poems are the remnants of that refusal. They are the whispered confessions of a world that learned to speak through ash. They are the hymns carved into abandoned walls by hands that trembled but did not stop. They are the soft rebellions of hearts that kept beating long after hope was declared obsolete. In these pages, you’ll find the ghosts of futures that never arrived, the echoes of love that outlived its own body, and the quiet, persistent pulse of beauty growing like moss across the bones of a broken age. This collection is not a map out of the darkness — it is a lantern held up inside it, illuminating the strange, fragile things that survive when everything else has fallen away. If you listen closely, you might hear the world breathing again.

Genre: Poetry

Author: Oli

Status: Ongoing

Chapters: 16

Rating: n/a

Age Rating: 13+

Author's Note

I didn’t write these poems to rebuild the world. I wrote them to sift through its ashes.

Every line in this collection was born from the quiet hours — the ones where the lights flicker, the news feels heavier than the sky, and the future seems like a door that won’t quite open. In those moments, I found myself reaching for language the way someone might reach for a candle in a collapsing room. Not because it could save me, but because it could remind me I was still here.

These poems are stitched from the things we’re not supposed to admit we feel: the loneliness that hums beneath the noise, the beauty that survives in broken places, the strange comfort of knowing that even ruins have stories. They’re gothic because the dark has always been honest with me. They’re dystopian because sometimes the world feels like it’s fraying at the edges. And they’re tender because, despite everything, I still believe in the small, stubborn pulse of hope.

If you’re holding this book, maybe you’ve felt that pulse too — faint, but real. Maybe you’ve looked at the world and wondered what grows in the cracks. Maybe you’ve needed a place where the shadows don’t swallow you, but speak to you.

This is that place. These are those shadows.

Thank you for stepping into them with me.