I wrote Loki on March 1st, 2025, not as a tribute to the pop-culture trickster, but to the old god—the one who exists in contradiction, liminality, and transformation. The Loki of myth is not tidy. He is not easily moralized. He is fire and fracture, ally and adversary, mother and monster, savior and destroyer. He is becoming.
This poem is less about mythology as history and more about mythology as mirror. Loki has always represented what unsettles systems built on rigidity: fluidity, change, refusal. In many ways, he is the god of those who do not fit neatly into the halls they are born into. Those who are renamed as “problem” when what they truly are is uncontainable.
Writing this was an act of reclamation. Of honoring the sacredness of contradiction. Of recognizing that to shift, to change, to refuse a single shape, is not betrayal—it is divinity in motion.
Not bound by name. Not fixed in form. Becoming is the divine act.
Loki Poetry by Rowan Evans
I have been son and mother, father and daughter, A whisper on the wind, a fire in the dark. I have been the tempest and the calm, A shifting shape, a name unchained.
I was never made to fit in their halls, So they twisted my name into a curse. They carved my legacy with hands that feared What could not be tamed, what would not kneel.
They call me trickster, traitor, monster— But what is a god if not a story rewritten? What is truth when bound by mortal tongues, When my form is fluid as the rivers they drink?
I have worn every face, walked every path, Yet still, they wish to bind me to one. But I am the echo of change, the chaos of fate, A dance between dusk and dawn.
Try as they might to paint me still, I will slip through cracks, through time, through names. For I am not one, nor two— I am all, I am none…
Life can change in a heartbeat. I wrote this piece over the last couple of days because the world reminded me how fragile and urgent everything can feel—how fast a life, a home, a moment can turn to smoke.
Even in the chaos, even when fear and exhaustion weigh heavy, there’s still presence. There’s still breath. There’s still love.
This poem is for those people who occupy your heart even when everything else seems to collapse. For the ones you carry in your thoughts, your prayers, your wishes for safety and light. For my muse, her sister, and her family—I hope you feel the strength of care here, even across the distance, even across the noise of the world.
Sometimes, being present is enough. Sometimes, staying steady, keeping your heart open, and wishing well for those you love is all that matters.
Watching chaos unfold, yet finding calm in presence, breath, and love.
Two Days Poetry by Rowan Evans
Last-minute decision— I moved.
My brother called. Tuesday. “Want to move on Thursday?” “Okay.” I packed my life in a day, we made good time, settled into the new place— first night soft, quiet, simple.
Then last night— one day in— the world cracked open.
Sparks. Flames. A fist pounding the door. “Fire! Get out!” And suddenly everything I own felt like smoke.
We stood outside for hours, feet aching—hearts racing, watching firefighters pour in and out, chasing the glow behind thin walls. Their boots thundered. Their voices echoed. I just stood there, trying to steady my breath, thinking how fast a life can turn to smoke.
Two days. Two moves. One body carrying exhaustion and adrenaline in the same heartbeat.
But I’m still here. The walls are still standing. And maybe… that’s enough for tonight.
And even in all that chaos, you never left my mind. I carried thoughts of you, your family, and the prayers I’ve whispered for days.
If you are interested in more of my poetry, you can find it here:The Library of Ashes
If you know me in real life and you read this… no the fuck you didn’t.
Author’s Note
There’s something about her that disarms me. A magnetism wrapped in mayhem—smirks and spells and unapologetic fire. I didn’t mean to be drawn in like this. Didn’t mean to find arousal in her chaos or reverence in her rage. But here I am, offering myself like a willing sacrifice—not for her approval, not even for love, but because she moves something in me. She reflects the darkest, most delicious corners of my soul—the ones I’ve spent a lifetime hiding, or worse… watering down.
When she said she wanted him to watch her fuck another man, smiling the whole time, I didn’t hesitate. I volunteered. Not just because it turned me on (though it absolutely did), but because in that moment, I wanted to be her weapon. Her ritual. Her revenge.
It’s not just the fantasy. It’s her. The way she owns herself—raw, untamed, unfiltered. She feels like a mirror made of fire.
And maybe…
Just maybe…
I’ve always been a little flammable.
“The Muse of Mayhem: fury, desire, and chaos embodied in one magnetic figure.”
Muse of Mayhem Poetry by Rowan Evans (Written May 16th, 2025)
She laughs, and the world wilts—
a garden set ablaze by a careless smile.
I swear the shadows lean closer
just to hear her whisper curses
with venom on her tongue
and starlight in her eyes.
She is fury made flesh,
a witch with war in her hips,
and I—
I volunteer as tribute.
While you spoke of
watching him gasp his last breath
in bitter silence,
I was biting my lip in awe,
moaning at the sight of your wrath—
divine, deliberate,
beautiful.
You said you’d fuck another man
while making him watch.
You smiled.
I offered my body
like a knife to your altar.
Burn me,
bury me,
brand me—
I’ll still crawl back,
hungry for more.
No one’s ever mirrored
my taste for chaos
with such elegance,
no one’s ever made me feel
so seen
in my darkness.
You speak,
and I turn to ash
willingly.
Muse of mayhem,
witch of want,
curse me with your presence again—
I’ll beg.
I’ll bleed.
I’ll write you
into every forbidden stanza
until even the moon
blushes at your name.
I am non-binary, trans-femme—a spectrum of fire and shadow, neither confined to the boxes of man nor woman. For ease, I often tell people I am a transgender woman, because too often the world cannot understand someone who exists outside binaries. Too many are trapped in the idea that femininity means woman, masculinity means man.
This poem is not about labels; it is about being a soul inhabiting a shell, learning to navigate life on my own terms. It is about contradictions, defiance, and the courage to embrace every shade of who I am. I am chaos. I am cosmos. I am me.
I Am: Embracing contradictions, defying binaries, and shining unapologetically in fire and shadow.
I Am Poetry by Rowan Evans
I wore the masc like a mask, hid in the dark, Flash femme, stitch fire, lightning in my heart. Binary cracked me, rewired my cage, Storm unleashed, spectrum steps on stage.
Dresses, beards, contradictions collide, Ride every edge, galaxy inside. Not man, not woman, not in-between, Every damn shade you ain’t ever seen.
Clothes are fabric, bodies are art, I throw chaos raw, straight from the heart. Love men, love women, souls in the mist, Unbound, reckless, impossible to resist.
Chains trap weak, fear feeds the meek, I spit crystal truth, sharp, unique. Fire and shadow, silk and stone, Galaxy unclaimed, throne my own.
Shred rules, laugh loud, burn every mask, Erase disguise, tear the world a new path. Not a girl, not a guy, not a whisper in-between, I’m the scream in the void, the spark unseen.
Clothes are fabric, bodies are art, Rebellion stitched deep in my heart. Fuck binaries, fuck the norms, I live chaos, survive all storms.
I am every shade, every scream, every spark, Shadow at noon, light in the dark. Question, answer, flame untamed, Chaos, cosmos—I claim my name.
If you have made it this far and would like to check out more of my poetry, you can find the full archive here:The Library of Ashes.
Art is a shadowed conversation between creation and chaos. In this piece, I explore the alchemy of patience and fury, the delicate balance between trembling reverence and untamed rebellion. Here, the mundane becomes macabre, and the act of painting transforms into liturgy. Let this poem draw you into the sanctuary where darkness is sacred, and surrender is an art form.
Gothic Bob Ross: Happy Little Blood Splatters – Rowan Evans transforms chaos into art, painting shadows, storms, and raven whispers into a Neo-Gothic masterpiece of devotion and rebellion.
✦ Invocation ✦
Come, children of ink and ember, step softly into the hours where the world frays at the edges. Hear the hum of candle flames, the scrape of claws on cobblestones, the whisper of wind threading through shattered mirrors. Let your senses awaken: the scent of wet asphalt, the metallic tang of rain, the hush of wings brushing shadowed rooftops. Breathe with me the sacred chaos, let your heart beat in rhythm with storm clouds and raven cries, and know that in this hour, creation itself bends to your will.
✦ Gothic Bob Ross: Happy Little Blood Splatters ✦ Poetry by Rowan Evans
I can be patient— but watch me lose patience.
Go ahead. Test me. Push me. Please— twist me. Bend me. Break me.
I’ll snap back, teeth bared, claws ready, painting happy little blood splatters next to storm clouds and crying ravens, the iron scent of rain heavy in the air.
Yeah, I’m timid… but push me to my limits, and I bite.
I mix shadows into my morning tea, steam curling like ghostly fingers, whisper secrets to the moon, and smile as the stars lean in close.
Draw blood, right next to a happy little tree, Gothic Bob Ross with a palette of chaos, every brushstroke a confession, every smear a warning traced in smoke and midnight ink.
I sprinkle ashes on canvas, watch them swirl like fog over abandoned graves. I teach crows to count my sins while rabbits nibble on forgotten bones, their teeth ticking like tiny chimes in the dark.
Lightning forks across my horizon— I smile and carve a happy little slit in the edge of the sky, a touch of crimson for contrast, the taste of ozone sharp on my tongue.
I stitch roses onto the night, petals sharp as knives, scent intoxicating, and hum lullabies for ghosts melting like wax on cold stone.
I build castles of broken teacups, cathedrals of splintered mirrors, and in each reflection I see the grin of someone you really don’t want to know.
Patience is a thread I hold… until it snaps. Then I am a storm with brushes for fingers, laughter like glass shattering over candlelight and cobblestones, every crack a confession, every crack a curse.
So go ahead. Push me. Twist me. Bend me. Break me. I’ll bite back, paint that, laugh in black, and leave you a masterpiece you’ll never forget.
✦ Benediction ✦
Go forth, children of shadow and creation.
Carry the chaos in your veins and the ink on your fingertips.
Let the brush of night guide your hands,
the echo of storm and crow sharpen your senses,
and the taste of rebellion color your heart.
When the world demands stillness,
remember the storm you conjure in silence.
In your shadowed devotion,
you are both artist and altar,
and the masterpiece of your darkness will endure.
Journey into the Hexverse
Nocturnal Crossing | Rowan Evans “Nocturnal Crossing” traces the nightly voyage where two souls separated by oceans meet in dreams. A neo-gothic meditation on longing, devotion, and the sacred intimacy of the subconscious.
Greed — 7 Deadly Sonnets | Rowan Evans ‘Greed’ reveals the hunger that is never sated—the clutching hands, the endless thirst for more, and the hollowness left behind. The third of the 7 Deadly Sonnets.
To Be Near Your Flame | Rowan Evans A haunting meditation on love, longing, and the quiet courage of staying close to the one who sets your heart ablaze. Includes a benediction for connection and devotion.
Like Lambs to the Slaughter | Rowan Evans A visceral, urgent poem confronting the dangers children face and the inaction of those in power. Like Lambs to the Slaughter is a call to awareness, empathy, and collective responsibility.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 