←

Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Confessional Romanticism

  • The Many Rooms – A Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism Journey by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    The Many Rooms is a dark fairytale of the mind, where every shadow, whisper, and creak reflects the fears and truths we carry within. Each room is a mirror of the self—haunting, twisted, and unforgettable.

    Step carefully. Some doors lead to fear, others to understanding—but all leave their mark.

    — Rowan Evans

    Haunting gothic mansion interior with shadows, cobwebs, and a grand mirror reflecting a mysterious ethereal figure.
    The Many Rooms – a dark, lyrical journey through the haunted corridors of memory and desire.

    The Many Rooms
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    In a mansion vast, of endless halls,
    Where shadows dance on ancient walls,
    I wander lost, through doors unknown,
    In chambers dark, where horrors are sown.

    A creak, a whisper, the floorboards sigh,
    As candle flames flicker, shadows multiply,
    The scent of mildew, damp and cold,
    Hangs in the air, with tales untold.

    Each room a new and twisted sight,
    In corners lurk the things of night,
    The wallpaper peels, a sickly green,
    Revealing faces, warped and keen.

    I tread on carpets, thick with dust,
    Beneath my feet, they seem to thrust,
    A musty odor, stale and old,
    Whispers secrets, dark and bold.

    A grand piano, silent, still,
    Its keys unplayed, a bitter chill,
    But when I pass, a haunting note,
    Rings out, as if a ghostly throat.

    Cobwebs cling, a silken snare,
    Their touch like ice, a frozen lair,
    The spiders scuttle, legs a-flurry,
    My pulse quickens, in rising hurry.

    Portraits hang with eyes that leer,
    Their painted gaze instills a fear,
    I hear them whisper, voices thin,
    “Why have you come? What lies within?”

    Through corridors, I race and run,
    From horrors past, and those to come,
    The walls they pulse, like living skin,
    A labyrinth, my mind within.

    A library, vast, with books that moan,
    Their pages turn, a chilling tone,
    The leather bindings, cracked and old,
    Release a scent, of rot and mold.

    Hands reach out from shadows deep,
    Their touch is cold, I start to weep,
    “Am I awake, or in a dream?”
    I ask myself, as senses scream.

    A nursery, with toys that move,
    Their eyes are black, their smiles a groove,
    They beckon, with hands of wax,
    To join their games, with twisted tracks.

    The dining hall, with feast decayed,
    The banquet’s smell, a rancid parade,
    Maggots crawl in silver bowls,
    A grotesque scene, that chills my soul.

    I stumble through, my mind a haze,
    Each room a trap, a twisted maze,
    “Is this my fate, to wander lost?”
    I ask myself, at what cost?

    The final door, with hinges rusted,
    I push it open, breath is busted,
    Inside I see, a mirror grand,
    Reflecting back a shadowed land.

    My own face stares, but not my eyes,
    A stranger’s gaze, with dark surprise,
    “Who are you?” I ask the glass,
    A voice replies, from ages past.

    “I am your fear, your deepest dread,
    The many rooms, within your head,
    Each door you passed, each fear you faced,
    A part of you, that can’t be erased.”

    I fall to knees, a cry, a scream,
    “Is this the end, or just a dream?”
    The mansion echoes with my wail,
    In endless rooms, I leave my trail.

    For in the dark, the shadows loom,
    Each room a fear, a whispered doom,
    I wander still, through night and day,
    In many rooms, I’ve lost my way.

    If you enjoyed your journey through The Many Rooms, I invite you to wander further into the cathedral of my mind in The Library of Ashes.

  • Gothic Bob Ross: Happy Little Blood Splatters | Rowan Evans | Neo-Gothic Confessional Poetry

    Rowan Evans

    ✦ Author’s Note ✦

    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.

    Dark gothic studio with storm, blood-red paint, crows, candlelight, and surreal shattered objects – illustration for Gothic Bob Ross poem.
    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.

  • Litany & Tongue: A Devotional Duet

    Rowan Evans

    Poetry by Rowan Evans
    A Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism Offering from the Witch of Devotion

    “To love you is to be undone by devotion itself—
    and in that undoing, to become more wholly yours than I ever was my own.” — Rowan Evans

    ✒️ Prologue: Love as a Liturgy

    Some loves burn rather than comfort.
    Some devotions do not save, but sanctify what aches.

    This is a confession written on my knees and in my mouth:
    that surrender is not silence, but scripture;
    that longing can be prayer, if spoken honestly enough;
    and that sometimes, the most sacred thing we can offer
    is our own willing ruin.

    These two poems were born together:
    one worships with breath and tongue;
    one worships with blood-warm surrender.
    Together, they write a gospel only the bruised-hearted will truly understand.

    The prayer of my mouth
    becomes the poem itself.

    🌹 Verses on My Tongue

    I’ll go down, for you—
    Yeah, I’ll go down and give
    cunning linguistic masterwork:
    the kind that worships every syllable of you,
    that licks consonants clean
    and teases vowels into soft surrender.

    I trace the spine of your breath
    with enjambed intentions,
    my mouth an open stanza—
    ready to break, to bend, to spill.
    The way I weave language,
    like fingers through midnight hair,
    twisting meaning until it knots
    against the tender nape of your want.

    It’s pulled tight with a well-placed metaphor,
    and your head falls back—
    so I kiss the waiting hollow of your throat
    with couplets, heavy and hot.
    A rhyme scheme written in shallow breaths,
    punctuated by shivers and parted lips.

    My tongue tastes the delicate margins
    where sense blurs into need,
    where verse becomes vice:
    a hush turned molten on your skin.
    Every gasp is a footnote I burn into memory
    with reverent, reckless devotion.

    See how I press similes
    against your hips,
    how I shape metaphors
    into wet confessions,
    how each line drips worship
    in broken, breathless syllables.

    And when climax rises—
    it’s an unwritten final stanza,
    a secret left trembling
    on the tip of my tongue,
    where meaning dissolves
    into nothing but you,
    and the prayer of my mouth
    becomes the poem itself.

    Hands held up in quiet offering, palms inked with fragments of poetry, candlelight catching the soft texture of worn skin and scattered rose petals. Dark devotional tone with a confessional gothic style.
    To love you
    is to be undone by devotion itself—

    🕯 Litany of My Willing Ruin

    I come to you—barefoot,
    soul calloused by wanting,
    bearing offerings of my softness:
    tongue bitten, breath unspooled,
    heart flayed open like velvet pages
    longing for your hand to write upon them.

    Command me—
    even in silence, your want is scripture;
    I bend to it as the rose bends to rain,
    not from fear, but from fervor—
    because your gaze is a chalice
    I would empty myself into
    until nothing of me remains
    but the echo of your name
    burned into the hollows of my ribs.

    I worship not an idol,
    but the ache of your humanity:
    the quake in your voice,
    the shadows that cling to your wrists,
    your imperfections shining
    like bruised constellations
    across a midnight sky I’d gladly kneel beneath.

    Take me—
    not in cruelty, but in quiet dominion:
    a covenant whispered against my pulse,
    the promise that my surrender
    is not your cage,
    but the wings you unfold
    with every command unspoken.

    For it is not the lash that tames me,
    but your mercy;
    not the chain that binds me,
    but your flaws,
    beautiful and blood-warm,
    as holy to me
    as any sainted relic.

    And if you were to ask why
    I would kneel at your altar,
    my answer would be this:
    because to love you
    is to be undone by devotion itself—
    and in that undoing,
    to become more wholly yours
    than I ever was my own.

    ✨ Epilogue: An Ink-Stained Benediction

    For the wild hearts who love with trembling lips.
    For the ones who bend, not from fear—but from worship.
    For the witches of devotion, the saints of softness,
    and every lover who understands: “To kneel is not surrender of power—
    but the claiming of sacred choice.”

    🕊️ Author’s Note

    I don’t write these to be saved.
    I write them because devotion—raw, flawed, beautiful—is the holiest thing I know.
    If these words find you: may they feel like both confession and permission.

    🔗 Explore More

    My Only Muse
    The Gospel of Softness I
    Ashes of the Prodigal Daughter
    For A Moment, I Was Home
    The Scourge They Couldn’t Name