In his third and most unflinching collection yet, Brodie Finegan Forbes descends into the wreckage left behind by meaning, mercy, and myth. Untitled the III is not about beginning again, it’s about what’s left when you can’t.
These poems emerge from the stillness after the storm, the ash, the echo, the uneasy calm of survival. They are confessions written with bloodied precision; meditations on consequence, ego, faith, decay, and the strange tenderness that lingers after destruction.
Each line cuts with the honesty of someone who no longer flinches. Each poem stands as a monument to endurance, not the kind that heals, but the kind that endures anyway.
From the haunting of Ode, Grandfather, to the piercing insight of Empathy & Dissonance, to the transcendence of Apotheosis, to the mercilessness of Maelstrom every poem strikes with precision, intensity, and undeniable consequence.
This is not poetry for comfort.
It is poetry for those who have already burned.
It’s for those who’ve stared into themselves and recognised the fire for what it is.
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