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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Child of the mythos

  • 13 Riddles for the Starborn Child — Roo the Poet’s Whimsical Wonder-Spells

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Roo the Poet is the child of my mythos—the barefoot wanderer of dreamscapes, the star-gatherer, the one who hums lullabies to the moon. Through Roo, I allow myself to write softer, lighter, and more whimsical pieces, to let the shadows lift just enough for starlight to spill in.

    If my other works speak in the voices of saints, witches, and ghosts, Roo is the child who runs between them—collecting stories in pockets, scattering questions like wildflower seeds. Roo writes not to answer, but to wonder. These 13 Riddles are not puzzles to solve, but spells to unravel you gently, reminding you of the magic you never truly lost.

    A barefoot child stands on a path of silver stardust, holding a jar of glowing stars under a deep indigo night sky.
    Roo the Poet—the child of my mythos—wanders the silver paths of wonder, carrying questions, and starlight in equal measure.

    Invocation

    Come closer, stardust child—
    bare feet on silver paths, pockets full of found things.
    We gather where the sky bends low to listen,
    where moonlight leans in to eavesdrop.
    Bring your questions, your quiet, your untamed dreams.
    Tonight, we trade riddles instead of answers,
    and let wonder do the rest.

    13 Riddles for the Starborn Child
    Poetry by Roo the Poet

    Goddess of Magic & Whimsy
    Witch of Wonder
    The Soul, The Child

    These riddles are soft spells, moonlit questions for the wild-hearted. They aren’t meant to be solved. They’re meant to unravel you gently.

    A tiny flower blooming in the palm of a sleeping hand, glowing faintly in dreamlight, watercolor style.
    Some seeds only bloom when the world isn’t watching.

    I

    Where do dreams go
    when we wake up crying—
    and who waters the flowers
    we only plant in sleep?

    A still lake under a dark sky, with one lone bright star glowing above, watercolor style.
    Some stars shine just for the ones who wait in silence.

    II

    If a heart breaks in silence,
    but the stars feel it—
    is it really alone?

    A girl made of flame softly blowing on a dandelion, its seeds drifting away unharmed, watercolor style.
    Even fire can make a wish without burning it.

    III

    Can a girl be made of fire
    and still blow wishes into dandelions
    without burning them?

    A laugh frozen in glass with fine cracks glowing from within, watercolor style.
    Sometimes joy hides its hurt in the smallest fractures.

    IV

    What do you call a laugh
    that hides a scream
    in the spaces between its syllables?

    Two shadows holding hands, their faces blurred like fading memories, watercolor style.
    We can forget the faces, but not the touch.

    V

    If I give you my name,
    but forget it tomorrow—
    does that mean we were ever strangers?

    A silver needle stitching a heart-shaped constellation with glitter thread, watercolor style.
    Some souls are mended with starlight and sorrow.

    VI

    How many poems does it take
    to stitch a soul back together
    with thread made of glitter and grief?

    A shadow with softly glowing eyes humming beside a child’s bed, watercolor style.
    Not all lullabies come from the light.

    VII

    If your shadow starts to hum lullabies,
    should you sing along—
    or run?

    A sword hidden beneath a pillow of white feathers, watercolor style.
    Even the gentlest hearts sleep armed.

    VIII

    Why do all the softest people
    sleep with swords under their pillows?

    The moon carving letters into beams of light, watercolor style.
    If the moon wrote your name, would you dare to read it?

    IX

    If the moon carved your name into light,
    would you recognize it—
    or look away?

    Two cupped hands cradling a whispered word like smoke, watercolor style.
    Every secret is a spell if you breathe it softly enough.

    X

    What’s the difference between
    a secret and a spell
    if both are whispered beneath your breath?

    A mirror streaked with tears while the person reflected smiles, watercolor style.
    Sometimes the reflection feels it first.

    XI

    If your reflection starts to cry
    before you do—
    who is comforting whom?

    A child’s hand reaching toward a monster’s clawed hand, watercolor style.
    Even monsters remember being held.

    XII

    Do monsters know
    they were children once?
    Do we?

    A wooden box spilling light, feathers, and broken toys, watercolor style.
    Magic never truly disappears—it just hides in the cracks.

    XII

    And if you find your magic again,
    buried deep in a box of broken things—
    will you call it yours,
    or will you pretend you never lost it?

    Benediction

    Go now, with your shadow softened by candlelight,
    with your pockets still jingling with small, strange truths.
    May you find your magic in the corners of ordinary days,
    and hold it without asking it to explain itself.
    The stars have written your name in secret places—
    when you find them,
    smile.

    If you enjoyed this piece, you can find more of my work in The Library of Ashes. I am sure that you will find more that you will enjoy.