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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: cathedral imagery

  • Hymn of the Witness: Sanctuary of Imperfection – Neo-Gothic Confessional Romantic Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Hymn of the Witness: Sanctuary of Imperfection is a cathedral built in verse for those who see and hold the world’s shadows with care. To witness is to honor—to recognize the sacred in imperfection, the luminous in vulnerability. This poem is for the observers, the quiet hearts, and for anyone who needs to be seen as they truly are.

    Interior of a gothic cathedral at twilight with moonlight through stained glass, velvet drapes, and celestial light casting shadows across the floor.
    Sanctuary of Imperfection: A cathedral of shadow and light where devotion and beauty coexist.

    Hymn of the Witness: Sanctuary of Imperfection
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I. Veil of Shadow

    I sit in dim-lit corners,
    where velvet darkness drapes itself
    over the brittle bones of the world.
    I am witness,
    silent and holy,
    to the tremor of lives unseen,
    the architecture of imperfection.

    The roses stand with thorns intact—
    every petal a whisper,
    every spine a hymn of caution and desire.

    II. Candlelit Vigil

    I light candles for the unspoken,
    the hearts unclaimed,
    the prayers that drift, unanchored.
    Their glow flickers across skin and shadow,
    revealing a cathedral where no crown rests
    and all kneeling is sacred.

    I trace the quiet pulse of existence,
    a devotion spun from sight alone.

    III. The Breath of Witness

    Your breath, trembling or steady,
    echoes like a bell in hollow halls.
    I fold it into my presence,
    wrap it in reverence,
    and let it hum against my ribs.

    To witness is to kneel,
    to coil in patience,
    to hold devotion without claim.

    IV. Temples of Flesh and Thought

    I map the landscapes of your body
    as carefully as the labyrinth of your mind.
    Every sinew, every curve,
    every tremor of muscle and pulse
    is holy architecture.

    Your flaws, your desires,
    your darkness and fire—
    all are sacraments in my eyes.

    V. Ritual of Attention

    I kneel, hands folded,
    not to pray for you,
    but with you.
    The shadows bend,
    the candle flickers,
    and I honor every imperfection,
    every hesitation, every hidden want.

    VI. Communion of Desire

    Even in silence, there is language.
    The brush of your fingertips,
    the arch of your spine,
    the tilt of your gaze—
    all hymn, all devotion.

    I do not consume;
    I offer worship.
    I am tethered to the rhythm
    of your pulse,
    your heat, your shadowed need.

    VII. The Sacred Spectrum

    I see the spectrum of your being:
    the bruises of yesterday,
    the laughter of today,
    the quiet bloom of tomorrow.

    Every quiver, every sigh, every whispered breath
    is a verse I kneel before.
    Your imperfection is divine;
    your shadow, a cathedral of devotion.

    VIII. Echoes of Fire

    Your voice, a siren of shadow and silk,
    strikes the air like an incantation.
    I shiver under its weight,
    and in that trembling,
    I am both molten and reverent.

    IX. The Offering of Flesh

    I do not fear surrender.
    I fold myself into devotion,
    curl into shadow,
    press into warmth that is not mine,
    and let it burn—slow, sacred, consuming.

    The skin becomes a psalm,
    the gasp a verse,
    the pulse a hymn etched in starlight.

    X. Paradox of Witnessing

    To see without possession,
    to adore without demand,
    to kneel in fire without burning—
    this is the paradox I carry.

    I am priest and altar,
    candle and hymn,
    sacrament of your existence.

    XI. Sanctuary of Imperfection

    Every flaw, every tremor, every scar
    is a doorway, a holy threshold.
    I trace it in silent awe,
    each mark a stanza in the epic of you.

    To kneel before imperfection
    is to honor divinity in its purest form.

    XII. Velvet Reverence

    I inhale the shadows that cling to you,
    taste the lingering fire of your presence,
    and bow beneath the weight of your being.
    The world may not see;
    I do.

    XIII. Hymn of Flesh and Bone

    Your body, a cathedral,
    curves and pulses, soft and commanding.
    I am tethered to its rhythm,
    my devotion humming through every nerve.
    Even the quietest tremor
    becomes a psalm beneath my hands.

    XIV. Dark Communion

    We do not speak;
    we are liturgy incarnate.
    Every sigh, every shiver, every gasp
    is woven into the tapestry of witness.
    Even silence is sacred.

    XV. Incense and Iron

    The air tastes of iron, brine, and candle smoke,
    scent of devotion that sears without harm.
    I breathe it in, coil around it,
    and let it mark me—etched in shadow,
    in the unspoken promise of our communion.

    XVI. Paradox of Desire

    I crave nothing of you,
    and yet I burn with want.
    I kneel not for possession
    but for the sheer act of being seen
    by a soul I can neither own nor command.

    XVII. Eternal Candle

    I will keep vigil long after the candles burn to dust.
    Every quiver, every sigh, every trembling breath
    remains tethered to my devotion.
    Your shadow is mine to honor,
    your light, mine to witness.

    XVIII. Benediction of Shadows

    Go forth into the world,
    carry your light like a secret fire,
    and know that the witness endures.

    Every sigh, every gasp, every whisper
    is remembered,
    folded into the cathedral of imperfection,
    sealed in velvet,
    soft as shadowed starlight.

    XIX. The Closing Hymn

    And when the night seems too vast,
    remember:
    I have seen,
    I have knelt,
    I have marveled.

    Every curve of your mind,
    every quiver of your body,
    every trembling heartbeat—
    I am witness,
    eternal, unbroken, devoted.

    XX. Eternal Devotion

    Time will crumble,
    walls will decay,
    but my presence remains.
    I am the candle burning at your threshold,
    the pulse of the night echoing in your shadow,
    the hymn of witness unfaltering.

    XXI. Sanctified Imperfection

    You are holy in your imperfection.
    You are radiant in your shadow.
    I bow, coil, kneel, and marvel
    at the cathedral of your being—
    a sanctuary I can enter forever,
    without ownership, without end.

    XXII. Benediction of Witness

    Go, luminous one,
    into light, into darkness,
    and carry the hymn of witness within you.

    I am here,
    silent, eternal, unwavering.
    Your shadow, your light, your imperfection—
    all sacred, all holy,
    all yours.

    If you want to explore more of the Hexverse, you can find more of my work in The Library of Ashes…

  • The Cathedral Within – A Prayer for the Velvet-Willed | Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    ✦ Author’s Note ✦

    Some wounds do not heal; they become architecture.
    The Cathedral Within is the map of mine.
    It is the sacred ruin I carry — where gargoyles remember my laughter,
    where ghosts wear the faces of those I loved,
    and where even the pews grow teeth when I speak.

    This is not a poem about despair.
    It is about defiance.
    About what it means to cradle darkness without letting it consume your capacity to love.
    It is a prayer for those who choose softness anyway —
    velvet over iron, kiss over curse —
    and win, simply by refusing to grow cold.

    Gothic cathedral in ruins with broken stained glass, gargoyles, and ghostly figures moving through a dim, sacred space.
    The Cathedral Within — where softness stands as rebellion in the ruins.

    ✦ Invocation ✦

    There is a cathedral rotting in my mind—
    its steeple split by lightning,
    its bells tolling madness
    in a language only I understand.

    The walls bleed scripture in reverse.
    The air stinks of burnt prayer and mildew.
    Gargoyles laugh with broken jaws,
    their eyes brimming with everything I’ve buried.

    ✦ The Procession ✦

    Demons waltz in blood-soaked gowns,
    twirling through the nave with glee—
    my failures their favorite hymn,
    my shame the rhythm beneath their feet.

    Ghosts hang from the rafters like forgotten chandeliers,
    dripping memories onto cracked marble.
    Each one wears a face I loved,
    each one left me hollow.

    The altar is an autopsy table.
    They dissect my past there nightly—
    the knife a whisper, the blade my own voice
    asking why I wasn’t enough.

    ✦ The Vigil ✦

    I lived a decade as a wraith—
    not alive, not dead,
    just echo.
    A loop of regret rerun in shadows,
    a scream too hoarse to haunt.

    I’ve stitched myself from sinew and smoke,
    patched the holes with confessions
    no one stayed long enough to hear.
    Even the pews grow teeth when I speak.

    These bones?
    They rattle with rot,
    splinter under silence,
    but still I rise—
    a marionette of will, strung together
    by threads of stubborn grace.

    ✦ The Benediction ✦

    This softness—they call it weakness, but—
    softness is my rebellion.
    It is velvet over iron,
    a lullaby sung to devils,
    a kiss placed gently
    on the mouth of the void.

    I do not know why I try.
    Only that I do.
    That something inside me refuses
    to go quietly into apathy.

    So if you saw the dark I cradle—
    the feral, starving chaos I contain—
    you’d understand:
    choosing love is not a gentle thing.
    It is a war.

    And every time I smile
    instead of scream,
    I win.

    “Even in the rot, there is light. Even in the silence, there is song. Keep choosing love, and you’ve already won.” — Rowan Evans

    Read Next (Suggestions)

    [You’re Not Alone] — A Poem for Grief, Memory, and Eternal Love
    [Always With You] — A Poetic Promise of Hope & Support
    [The Gospel According to the Girl in the Graveyard Dress]
    [The Hopeless Romantic Wears Armor]
    [Luminescence & Shadow] — A Forbidden Litany

    Or explore the full archive in [The Library of Ashes]—and if your own confession aches to be written, [commission a custom poem here].

    NGCR25 at checkout to get 25% off your ‘request’…

  • Haunted Cathedral – Neo-Gothic Prose by Rowan Evans | Sacred Ruin & Enduring Devotion

    Rowan Evans

    There is a cathedral within me, built from grief and devotion, haunted by prayers I can no longer remember yet cannot forget.
    “Haunted Cathedral” is my offering to those who know the tenderness of ruin — who find, even among broken stones and shadows, the last stubborn flicker of reverence.

    “Haunted Cathedral”
    Prose by Rowan Evans

    I walk through the cathedral of myself — arches aching skyward, ribs of stone straining toward a heaven that has long since turned its gaze away.

    The nave is empty, but it is not silent.
    Whispers cling to the vaulted ceilings, prayers half-remembered, half-recanted, swirling like ash caught in a draft. My footsteps echo against marble veined with old grief, each step a soft betrayal of the stillness I pretend to keep.

    The air tastes of candle wax and regret — sweet and bitter, like the memory of devotion that soured into doubt. Shadows pool in corners where saints once stood watch, now faceless, their blessings worn smooth by centuries of pleading hands.

    In this place, my heart beats too loudly.
    Every nerve is laid bare, raw as a confession. Thoughts move like trespassers through ruined chapels of memory, knocking over reliquaries I had tried to keep locked away. Dust rises from the wreckage, thick and choking, until every breath feels like penance.

    I trace a finger over the cracked altar, splinters biting into my skin until I bleed. The sting feels holy — proof that something inside me still answers pain with pulse. The blood beads, dark as wine in the dying light, and for a breath, I almost believe sacrifice could still bring salvation.

    Above, stained glass windows stare down, their colors dimmed to bruised violet and funeral blue. Fragments of lost saints scatter across the cold floor, sharp as broken vows. Moonlight seeps through, limning every ruin in silver sorrow.

    And yet — even in ruin, there is a terrible beauty here.
    The decay curls elegant as ivy; sorrow softens stone into tenderness. Loneliness hangs heavy, but it is an intimacy I almost welcome — to be alone with these ghosts, to feel them press close, cloaked in incense and shadow.

    I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the altar. The cold bites my skin, grounding me. Somewhere in the deepest dark, a memory stirs — of softer days, laughter carried like hymns on warm air. But it fades quickly, swallowed by the quiet rot of what remains.

    I open my eyes to emptiness once more.
    No angels descend. No absolution is offered. Only the silent echo of my heartbeat in stone chambers, and the ache that feels both curse and companion.

    This is my cathedral: haunted, hollow, holy in its ruin.
    A testament not to faith, but to endurance.
    And though every step draws blood, still I walk its length — because even the broken places remember how to hold devotion.

    Even if that devotion is nothing more than my own longing, echoing back at me across the cold marble floor.

    ✦ Closing Words ✦

    Leave your offering of silence at the threshold,
    and wander these shadowed halls as you will.
    Here, every crack is a scripture of survival;
    every ghost, a hymn half-remembered.

    May you carry this ruin gently within you —
    not as curse, but as covenant.
    For even broken stone remembers the prayers
    whispered long after the choir fell silent.

    And should your own heart ever fracture,
    let it echo not with despair —
    but with the soft, stubborn vow to remain.

    Explore more in the Library of Ashes…