Poetry by Rowan Evans

There is a war raging in my mind—
a battlefield split by a single strand.
Two voices clash, one spitting venom,
“Fuck love,” it sneers,
while the other, trembling, begs,
“Hold on to hope.”

Which is the truth?
Which is the lie?
Which one will guard me,
and which one will let me die?

It’s a fine line — a tightrope —
threaded over a yawning chasm.
Below, jagged regrets gnash their teeth;
above, a sunless sky waits to swallow me whole.

I stumble, my feet trembling on steel thread.
A heartbeat from the fall.
One voice tugs me toward the abyss,
its laughter thick and unrelenting —
“Let go. There’s freedom in the descent.”
But the other voice, soft as breath, holds fast —
“Stay. The air is still yours to breathe.”

I waver.
“Pain is temporary,” one whispers like a breeze.
“It’s okay to break, okay to bleed.”
But then the scream — a storm that howls through bone.
“Fool! Attachment is a cage. Solitude is strength.
You thrive in the shadows — that’s where you belong.”

SHUT UP.

The words erupt from me, a desperate crack.
Still, the tightrope trembles.
Still, the void below grins.
But I find footing. One step. Then another.

Arms outstretched — a trembling balance.
Hope flickers like a dying ember,
and doubt whispers in the ash.
“Can light ever last? Can joy sustain?
Or is it just a fragile spark, waiting for the wind?”

And yet, somewhere beyond the bickering storm,
a voice remains — barely a murmur.
A child, afraid and alone,
but daring to believe the sun will rise.

I choke on the weight of it all.
The rope sways beneath me.
One side gleams with silver promises,
the other drips with shadowed comfort.
And I wonder — can you trust the light
when it blinds you?
Can you survive the dark
without losing your name?

“Who is right?” I ask the air.
But there’s no answer.
Only the screeching quarrel,
echoing inside my fractured mind.

And then — realization.

Neither voice holds the truth.
Neither path is the answer.
I don’t need to cling to hope with white-knuckled fists,
nor should I bathe in the dark until I drown.

A little light. A little shade.
Balance — like walking the rope.

“B.D., you tether me to the ground,” I say,
“But the chains you wrap me in leave bruises.
You bleed me dry, turning my fears into gospel.”

“And Roo, your hands reach for the sky,”
“But you forget that wings melt in the sun.
Not every leap will be a flight.”

You both need me — and I need you.
A trembling trinity, we breathe as one.
Three seconds in, out through the nose.

Together, we will learn the art of the fall —
and the strength it takes to rise.