Poetry by Rowan Evans

☽ Introduction ☾

In every myth, there is a cathedral of ruin; in every man who calls himself monster, a prayer that was never answered.
This is the confessional of a city’s orphaned ghost — sworn not to salvation, but to the endless catechism of vengeance.
This is…

☽ The Vigil of the Broken Saint ☾
Prose by Rowan Evans

I keep vigil in a cathedral of bone and sorrow — arches aching heavenward, ribs of stone bruised by night’s embrace.
The city itself becomes my chapel: alleys the dark nave, gargoyles my silent witnesses, gargling rain and secrets.

I wear grief like a monk’s habit, dyed black as confession and heavier than sin.
Each night, I descend into prayer not with folded hands but with clenched fists — my psalms spoken in bruises and fractured breath.

The stained glass here is cracked beyond repair: memories of a pearl necklace scattering like small white prayers on asphalt; a boy’s scream swallowed by gun smoke.
Their colors are gone — only shards remain, catching no dawn, only moonlight and guilt.

This city does not absolve.
Its concrete saints are headless, the altar cold as a tombstone.
I press my forehead to it anyway, blood wetting stone: a silent offering for a father who cannot forgive, a mother who cannot speak.

Pain becomes sacrament.
Every scar is a prayer bead, every fracture an unanswered supplication.
The creed etched in marrow: Vengeance is devotion. Sacrifice is absolution.
And when my knees ache from the stone, I rise still unredeemed.

Yet night after night, I return.
Drawn back to this ruined chapel by ghosts draped in shadow and sorrow.
The gargoyles never weep, but I have learned to cry behind the cowl — hot salt hidden in darkness.

Even the bats above seem to mourn with me, their wings whispering sermons in a language of hunger and hollow echo.
My breath fogs in the cold, each exhale a psalm of stubborn defiance.

There is no redemption here.
Only the soft rot of hope turned grave-cold and the ache that will not leave.
Still, I remain — bruised, unholy, unrepentant — because this, too, is devotion: to rise, even damned, and walk the city’s labyrinth once more.

☽ Benediction ☾

May the ruin remember why it loved you.
May the bruises become scripture.
And though no salvation comes,
may your broken vigil remain holy in its endlessness.

🔗 You might also enjoy…

Every vigil casts its own shadow.
If The Vigil of the Broken Saint has found a quiet corner in your marrow, you may also wander these chapels of ruin and devotion:

The Vigil of the Clown Prince
The Vigil of the Twisted Harlequin
The Vigil of the First Son

Each is a prayer, a confession, a testament carved in bruise, bone, and breath.

Therapy in Arkham
Infinity Within – Plus Credits & End Credit Scene

✒️ If my words speak to you, and you’d like to help keep this flame burning — or if you’d like a custom poem woven just for you (or someone dear) — you can do so here:

Ko-fi – Poetry by Rowan Evans