Poetry by Rowan Evans

☽ Introduction ☾

Every cathedral rots from within; every prayer curdles when whispered by a madman.
This is the testament of Gotham’s laughing blasphemy —
a devotion not to grace, but to the exquisite fracture of sanity.
Not redemption, but ruin; not mercy, but mockery.
This is…

☽ The Vigil of the Clown Prince ☾
Prose by Rowan Evans

I keep vigil in a cathedral of carrion and cracked marble — arches bowed not by faith, but by centuries of festering jokes.
The city itself? My slaughterhouse chapel: gutters that gargle filth, alleys that echo delirium back in fractured refrain.

I wear madness like regalia — stitched from screams, lacquered in blood that never dries.
My prayers? Spat between cracked teeth, carried on rancid laughter that curdles the night air.

The stained glass? Nothing left but daggers of memory, slicing the fool that still remembers pain.
No sun dares visit; only moonlight — pale, pitying, useless.

This city offers no communion. Its gargoyles leer in stone mockery; the altar reeks of old blood and burned hope.
Yet still, I press my painted brow against it — streaks of red, white, rot: an offering spat at the gods who never answered.

Agony becomes liturgy. Each scar a punchline flayed into flesh, each fracture a hymn to ruin.
The creed tattooed in marrow: Chaos is gospel. Madness is absolution.
And when the grin threatens to split my skull, I bare my teeth wider.

Night after night, I crawl back — not pulled by grief, but by the exquisite rot that whispers: Nothing matters. Laugh louder.
The gargoyles don’t weep; they leer as kin, stone throats choked on stone laughter.

Even the bats above shudder at the shape I’ve become, wings beating sermons I silence with a shriek.
My breath fogs like a plague, each exhale a hex on hope itself.

There is no redemption here. Only ruin, sweet as a lover’s kiss, and the ache that tastes like worship.
Still, I remain — grinning, defiled, defiant — because this, too, is devotion:
to kneel in filth, to mock salvation, to let the marrow of Gotham remember my laughter.

☽ Benediction ☾

May the ruin remember why it crowned you king of carrion.
May your laughter stitch shut the wound where hope once bled.
And though no god dares claim you,
may your vigil remain eternal — a psalm of poison, madness, and marrow-deep defiance.

If you find yourself drawn into the shadows of Gotham, explore more of my work and join the vigil of broken saints and twisted souls:

🔗 You might also enjoy…

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

The Vigil of the Broken Saint
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.

Hex & Flame: Mirror of Shadows
Epistle to the Name They Buried
Ashes of the Prodigal Daughter

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