Poetry by Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

The Many Rooms is a dark fairytale of the mind, where every shadow, whisper, and creak reflects the fears and truths we carry within. Each room is a mirror of the self—haunting, twisted, and unforgettable.

Step carefully. Some doors lead to fear, others to understanding—but all leave their mark.

— Rowan Evans

The Many Rooms
Poetry by Rowan Evans

In a mansion vast, of endless halls,
Where shadows dance on ancient walls,
I wander lost, through doors unknown,
In chambers dark, where horrors are sown.

A creak, a whisper, the floorboards sigh,
As candle flames flicker, shadows multiply,
The scent of mildew, damp and cold,
Hangs in the air, with tales untold.

Each room a new and twisted sight,
In corners lurk the things of night,
The wallpaper peels, a sickly green,
Revealing faces, warped and keen.

I tread on carpets, thick with dust,
Beneath my feet, they seem to thrust,
A musty odor, stale and old,
Whispers secrets, dark and bold.

A grand piano, silent, still,
Its keys unplayed, a bitter chill,
But when I pass, a haunting note,
Rings out, as if a ghostly throat.

Cobwebs cling, a silken snare,
Their touch like ice, a frozen lair,
The spiders scuttle, legs a-flurry,
My pulse quickens, in rising hurry.

Portraits hang with eyes that leer,
Their painted gaze instills a fear,
I hear them whisper, voices thin,
“Why have you come? What lies within?”

Through corridors, I race and run,
From horrors past, and those to come,
The walls they pulse, like living skin,
A labyrinth, my mind within.

A library, vast, with books that moan,
Their pages turn, a chilling tone,
The leather bindings, cracked and old,
Release a scent, of rot and mold.

Hands reach out from shadows deep,
Their touch is cold, I start to weep,
“Am I awake, or in a dream?”
I ask myself, as senses scream.

A nursery, with toys that move,
Their eyes are black, their smiles a groove,
They beckon, with hands of wax,
To join their games, with twisted tracks.

The dining hall, with feast decayed,
The banquet’s smell, a rancid parade,
Maggots crawl in silver bowls,
A grotesque scene, that chills my soul.

I stumble through, my mind a haze,
Each room a trap, a twisted maze,
“Is this my fate, to wander lost?”
I ask myself, at what cost?

The final door, with hinges rusted,
I push it open, breath is busted,
Inside I see, a mirror grand,
Reflecting back a shadowed land.

My own face stares, but not my eyes,
A stranger’s gaze, with dark surprise,
“Who are you?” I ask the glass,
A voice replies, from ages past.

“I am your fear, your deepest dread,
The many rooms, within your head,
Each door you passed, each fear you faced,
A part of you, that can’t be erased.”

I fall to knees, a cry, a scream,
“Is this the end, or just a dream?”
The mansion echoes with my wail,
In endless rooms, I leave my trail.

For in the dark, the shadows loom,
Each room a fear, a whispered doom,
I wander still, through night and day,
In many rooms, I’ve lost my way.

If you enjoyed your journey through The Many Rooms, I invite you to wander further into the cathedral of my mind in The Library of Ashes.