About C. Wylde

C. Wylde is the writer and curator of the A Lathe of Cinder archives—a sanctuary for those who have stood in the ruins of their own history and chosen to build something unyielding. Crafting at the volatile edge where ancient aesthetics meet the modern soul, Wylde treats poetry not as a performance, but as a somatic ritual of reclamation. Across six visceral movements, they meticulously deconstruct the architecture of the past—the soot, the rubble, and the blackened iron—to forge a new sovereignty of marrow and gold. “Find the crack where the iron broke. This is the lathe. Begin the grind.” For Wylde, the "soul work" of modern existence requires more than just observation; it requires the friction of the cinder and the fluidity of the heart. Whether through dark contemporary verse or visual oracles, their mission is to guide the seeker through the transformative alchemy of the self, turning the internal landscape into a cathedral of reverence. The architecture is igniting.

Will you witness the shift?

About A Lathe of Cinder

A Lathe of Cinder is a visceral debut collection of 100 poems that serves as a somatic ritual of dismantling and reclamation. Moving from the raw honesty of The Mirror and the Marrow to the sacred power exchange of The Ritual of Surrender, C. Wylde maps a journey that is long, treacherous, and deeply unapologetic. This is not a performance of perfection, but a liturgy for the broken and the brave—a reminder that when you stop running from your ghosts and invite them to sit at the table, they eventually fall in reverence.

From the smoke of the descent to the golden crown of the final ascent, Wylde proves that you are not a victim of the storms you have survived; you are the one who survived them to build a new architecture of the soul. The fire is already lit.

Step inside.

Who This Book Embraces

To everyone who has been told their fire is too much.

For my children, who will always be my greatest inspiration and driving force.

And for the woman I was, before I learned that my ghosts could be made to bow.