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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Activism

  • WOKE Part 2: Bearing Witness to Injustice – Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This installment dives into systemic inequities, confronting racial and social injustice head-on. It examines the anger and frustration that fuel action, and the costs of speaking truth to power.

    “Silhouetted protestors in empty streets at dusk, with headlines floating symbolically above, representing systemic injustice.”
    Rowan Evans bears witness to history and systemic inequities in WOKE Part 2, channeling the fury and pain of the silenced.

    WOKE (Part 2)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    They say a lynching was a suicide,
    I guess being black took his life.
    The headline reads fiction,
    But history whispers cruelty in the wind.

    I stay WOKE, because sleep is luxury
    Reserved for those blind to rot.
    Hands build monuments to lies,
    While bodies disappear, uncounted, unnamed.

    “Calm down, it’s over,” they tell me,
    As if oppression is a bedtime story,
    As if my fury is a tantrum
    From someone who dares to notice.

    I rage for mothers, fathers, children
    Erased in official reports,
    For those who fell while the world looked away,
    And those trembling, forced to pray.

    I write in neon ink, in fiery scars,
    For the voiceless who scream in the dark,
    For every injustice whitewashed,
    Every truth buried beneath silence and sand.

    I stay WOKE, because breathing here
    Means noticing horrors, refusing witness,
    Carrying the weight loud, unbroken, alive.

    They may call me terrorist, troublemaker,
    But I call myself awake,
    And I will not blink while the world sleeps.
    Not while power smiles over the dead,
    Not while history repeats its cruel refrain.

    The fire grows hotter. WOKE Part 3 Finale: Carrying the Fire of Truth → confronts the unyielding struggle for justice and the voices the world tries to silence.

    ← Return to WOKE Part 1: Staying Awake in a World of Injustice

  • Confetti Over Graves: A Poetic Critique of Hollow Prayers

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Prayer, at its heart, is sacred. It can heal, comfort, and connect. But when prayer becomes a substitute for action—when it is the only thing offered in the face of preventable tragedy—it curdles into something hollow. Words without movement are not faith; they are excuses.

    Confetti Over Graves was written in anger at the endless cycle of platitudes—those quick gestures of “thoughts and prayers” tossed like scraps to the grieving, while nothing changes, while the same wounds reopen again and again. This is not an attack on prayer itself, but on the apathy disguised as piety, on the cowardice of leaders who offer sympathy in place of responsibility.

    If compassion never moves beyond the lips, if love never reaches the hands,
    then what are these words but glitter tossed over graves?
    A hollow gesture for those who can no longer notice.

    Confetti drifting over gravestones in a dark, stormy cemetery, representing empty gestures of sympathy.
    Even the brightest words mean little when action fails to follow.

    Confetti Over Graves
    (Thoughts & Prayers)
    Poetry By Rowan Evans

    In the silence after the storm, they speak— 
    Whispers like dust in the hollowed air, 
    “Thoughts and prayers,” they murmur, 
    As if those words could sew the wounds shut, 
    As if they could rebuild what has crumbled.

    But the world bleeds, and their empty phrases 
    Fall like ash from a dying flame, 
    No spark to ignite change, no fuel for the fire, 
    Just the cold echo of apathy disguised 
    As concern, wrapped in hollow promises.

    “Thoughts and prayers,” they chant, 
    A chorus of silence, loud and hollow, 
    As the world screams beneath their indifference. 
    What good are these words that fall from their lips, 
    When no hands are raised, no action follows? 

    They toss these phrases like confetti over graves, 
    Hope that the dead won’t notice 
    How little they mean, how meaningless they are. 
    Thoughts are fleeting, prayers are whispers 
    Carried away by the wind, lost in the void. 

    Yet the pain remains, rooted deep, 
    The tragedies continue to unfold, 
    And their words are no balm, no salve, 
    Just the sound of a door closed 
    On a house already burning. 

    If you have nothing but air to offer, 
    Best to keep your mouth shut, 
    For silence is kinder than the lie 
    That “thoughts and prayers” will heal 
    The wounds they pretend not to see. 

    The world waits for more than hollow phrases, 
    For more than a heart too heavy to act. 
    So keep your words if they are empty, 
    For the dead can no longer hear you, 
    And the living are tired of listening.

    Closing Note

    These words are not against prayer or hope, but against inaction cloaked as concern. Let them remind us that care requires more than whispers—it demands presence, effort, and courage.

    If you would like to explore more of the Hexverse, you can find more of my work as my various personas in The Library of Ashes.