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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: confessional prose

  • The Vigil of the Poisoned Rose | Neo-Gothic Confessional

    Rowan Evans

    ☽ Introduction ☾

    Every garden remembers both the hand that nurtures and the hand that poisons.
    This is the confession of Gotham’s scarlet heretic:
    not saint, not martyr—but something thorned and blooming,
    keeper of ruin and reluctant tenderness.
    This is…

    Gothic cathedral draped in thorned crimson roses and green ivy, moonlight casting shadows across broken marble. Symbolic vigil for Poison Ivy’s devotion and rage.
    Even in ruin, the garden remembers her—thorns entwined with mercy, venom whispered as prayer. 🌹🩸✨

    The Vigil of the Poisoned Rose
    Prose by Rowan Evans

    I keep vigil in a cathedral of thorn and ruin—
    roots cracking marble, petals soft as bruised confessions.
    The vines remember everything: laughter turned lash, devotion curdled to delirium, love that tasted of ash.

    The Clown Prince crowned himself in carrion and chaos;
    his laughter poisoned every garden it touched, and yet—
    once, I let my petals tilt toward that unholy sun,
    believing ruin might remember how to cradle something living.

    And her—my twisted harlequin:
    she knelt beside him in worship and in terror, ribs tattooed with punchlines sharp enough to draw blood.
    I saw the bruises masked in painted devotion;
    I whispered to her marrow that love was not meant to devour,
    that even venom could be tender if the hand that offered it dared to hold, not break.

    Yet I, too, am not blameless:
    my rage roots deep, my vengeance blooms red as spilled confession.
    Mercy and malice entwine in my marrow until I can no longer tell thorn from bloom.
    The garden I tend is as much graveyard as sanctuary.

    The altar breathes earth’s bloodied breath;
    my prayers rise, whispered in poison and petals,
    not for absolution, but remembrance.
    For the shadows I could not save,
    for the lover I could not change,
    for the feral girl whose laughter once grew alongside my own.

    Some nights, the vines still ache for what we built, even if it rotted from within.
    But devotion demands thorns as well as bloom.
    I remain—haunted, unrepentant, alive—
    because this, too, is devotion:
    to love what might destroy you,
    to cradle venom as gently as hope,
    and to name even your ruin holy.

    ☽ Benediction ☾

    May the ruin remember why it crowned you in thorns.
    May your poison feed what still dares to bloom.
    And though no god dares absolve you,
    may your vigil remain eternal—
    a psalm of petals, venom, and marrow-deep mercy.

    🌹 Read Next Suggestions:

    If this vigil spoke to the marrow of your own shadows, step deeper into the confessional:

    The Vigil of the Clown Prince
    The Vigil of the Twisted Harlequin
    The Vigil of the Broken Saint
    The Vigil of the First Son

    Each a psalm of ruin, devotion, and the sacred ache of what we dare to love—even when the world calls it madness.

    Or visit [About NGCR] to learn more about this movement—and if you feel called, [submit your own writing] to be featured.

    If my words speak to you, and you’d like to help keep this flame burning — or if you’d like a custom poem woven just for you (or someone dear) — you can do so here:

    Ko-fi — Poetry by Rowan Evans

  • The Vigil of the First Son | Neo-Gothic Confessional Prose by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    ☽ Introduction ☾

    In every myth, there is a shadow cast by a cathedral’s ghost;
    in every son who claims that shadow, a prayer whispered in defiance.
    This is the confessional of a child born of ruin and rebellion—
    sworn not to brokenness, but to the fierce holiness of becoming.
    This is…

    Nighttime illustration of a masked vigilante standing on a cathedral roof, overlooking a cracked yet living city under moonlight; symbolizing hope within ruin.
    A sentinel between shadow and dawn — the First Son’s vigil burns quietly, but it burns still.

    ☽ The Vigil of the First Son ☾
    Prose by Rowan Evans

    I was not born from cathedral shadows—
    I fell from another height, beneath painted canvas and sawdust air,
    where faith meant catching and being caught.

    But the fall came anyway.
    And in the ruin, he found me—
    the Broken Saint, robed in mourning.
    He offered me a name forged from grief,
    and I took it, though my palms still smelled of flight and chalk.

    They call me heir, as if shadow is all I have inherited.
    But gods know, I am more:

    I have bled in these alleys, yes—
    but I have danced on rooftops, too,
    laughter spilling into the bruised dawn,
    a reminder that even vigil can be alive.

    He is the shadow.
    I am the light who learned to love the dark
    without letting it devour me.

    Sometimes guilt creeps in—
    that I can still love where he has walled himself off,
    that I can still smile where he only mourns.

    But hope is rebellion, too—
    a heresy against a city built on scars.

    Tonight, the moon crowns my brow in borrowed silver,
    and Blüdhaven breathes below—cracked, imperfect, alive.

    I watch from these heights:
    a sentinel, a son, still learning.

    I am not him.
    And gods, that is my salvation.

    ☽ Benediction ☾

    May the shadow teach you mercy.
    May your scars be the map to your salvation.
    And though the night will call,
    may your first vigil blaze bright enough to be seen from every dawn.

    🔗 You might also like…

    Every vigil casts its own shadow.
    If The Vigil of the First Son has found a quiet corner in your marrow, you may also wander these chapels of ruin and devotion:

    The Vigil of the Broken Saint — a confession of Gotham’s haunted martyr.
    The Vigil of the Clown Prince — a testament of madness, ruin, and marrow-deep defiance.
    The Vigil of the Twisted Harlequin — scars reborn as rebellion, laughter reclaimed.

    Each is a prayer, a confession, a testament carved in bruise, bone, and breath.
    May you find something of yourself between the shadows and the candlelight.

    If my words speak to you, and you’d like to help keep this flame burning — or if you’d like a custom poem woven just for you (or someone dear) — you can do so here:

    Ko-fi — Poetry by Rowan Evans