Baby, this “auntie” lives
for a good read…
They say at fifty plus,
the heart seeks still waters.
But this Auntie?
I crave the flood.
I don’t want the sappy,
the shallow,
or the ghost in the corner.
Give me raw and uncut.
Give me the knots that won’t untie.
Give me the jagged turns
and the plots so tangled
they draw blood.
I just emerged from the wreckage
of S.A. Cosby’s, “King of Ashes,”
and let the record show:
it held me in a
stilled-breath chokehold.
I wasn’t just reading;
I was clutching pearls
and counting casualties.
Imagine the cold ambition of Power,
the raw soul of Beauty in Black,
and the desperate,
dirt-stained hustle of The Ozarks
all bled into one big roar.
Cosby didn’t just write a book;
he built a pyre
and handed me the match.
It’s giving FIVE stars—
a rating written in smoke.
Don’t you dare whisper that
reading is a quiet obsolete thing.
I have the receipts
and scars to prove it’s alive.
Escobar told us that
empires are created in
blood and fire,
and honey,
Cosby brought the entire inferno.
If you value your peace,
look away.
But if you value the truth,
find Chapter 28
& lay a marker there,
where the soul of the book
finally speaks:
“Sometimes the man wearing the crown
ain’t the man that’s supposed to be the king.”
It is a sermon on power.
It is a eulogy for the unworthy.
I won’t betray all the secrets,
but know this:
It is drama refined into a diamond,
sharp enough to cut.
Run.
Don't walk toward the heat.
Cosby isn't just an author;
he is the GOAT of the burn.
And in these pages?
Everything—
the crown,
the kingdom,
and the man—
turns to ash.
It’s definitely LIT!
