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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: creative-writing

  • Schrödinger’s Person | A Poem About Presence, Perception, and Existing Between States

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem began with a phrase.

    “Schrödinger’s Person.”

    The moment it entered my mind, I laughed.

    Then I realized it wasn’t really a joke.

    I’ve always been fascinated by the spaces between things.

    Between sleeping and waking.

    Between leaving and arriving.

    Between being understood and merely being seen.

    The famous thought experiment gave me a metaphor, but the poem isn’t really about quantum mechanics.

    It’s about perception.

    There are moments when I feel as though I exist in two places at once.

    One version of me is moving through the ordinary world.

    The other exists inside the minds of the people who know me, read my work, remember me, or think about me.

    Neither version is false.

    They’re simply different ways of existing.

    I think writers become especially aware of this.

    Our words continue living in places we’ll never visit, meeting people we’ll never meet.

    A poem can be read years after it’s written.

    A thought can continue existing long after the thinker has moved on.

    That creates a strange feeling.

    Part of you is always somewhere else.

    The final lines carry the emotional truth of the piece.

    Not that I cease to exist when no one is looking.

    Only that being perceived is one of the ways we feel most alive.

    Maybe that’s true for all of us.

    Maybe every human being exists in more than one state at once.

    The self we know.

    And the self that lives in someone else’s memory.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure appears between two overlapping realities, symbolizing existing in multiple states at once.
    Sometimes existence feels less like certainty and more like possibility.

    Schrödinger’s Person
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’m drifting somewhere
    in the in-between—
    space is liminal here.
    This is where people go
    to disappear—
    you must exist
    with the fear.

    It’s like I’m here
    but I’m not—
    I’m somewhere else too.
    It’s like I exist—
    in two states
    at the same time.

    I am Schrödinger’s Person.

    You see—
    that sounds more dramatic
    than it is,
    I just mean—
    when you perceive me
    is when I live.

    Not that I don’t
    without you—
    because I do,
    but I really don’t want to.

    You see—
    the two states
    I exist in,
    here…

    and there.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Returning to My Bones]
    Some dreams fade the moment we wake. Others leave behind emotions that linger long after reality returns. Returning to My Bones explores the strange grief of leaving a dream that felt real enough to matter.

    [Before My Feet Touch the Floor]
    What happens when your dreams feel more real than your waking life? Before My Feet Touch the Floor explores the strange grief of waking up, the lingering memory of dream selves, and the quiet question of which version of us is truly real.

    [Just Beyond Waking]
    A street that feels familiar. A life that hasn’t happened yet. Just Beyond Waking explores the fragile space between dreams, memory, longing, and the quiet feeling that some futures are already waiting for us.

    [The Needle Doesn’t Point North]
    “The Needle Doesn’t Point North” is a deeply personal free verse poem about displacement, identity, and spending a lifetime feeling emotionally disconnected from the place you were born while being drawn toward distant shores.

    [The Streets I Walk When I Sleep]
    “The Streets I Walk When I Sleep” is a deeply intimate free verse poem about recurring dreams, emotional connection, longing across distance, and the strange feeling of remembering places and moments that have never happened in waking life.

    [Separate Timelines]
    “Separate Timelines” is a surreal and deeply introspective free verse poem about emotional distance, time zones, vulnerability, and the fear of losing a connection that already feels meaningful before the words are ever spoken aloud.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Translating What I Feel | A Poem About Creativity, Emotion, and the Writing Process

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem began with an image.

    Not a line. Not a metaphor.

    An image.

    A single figure standing alone, staring into the distance like the opening shot of a film.

    At first, the poem exists entirely outside the body. The speaker is observed rather than understood. We see the wind. The trees. The dirt beneath their feet. We hear a voice describing loneliness from a distance.

    Then the question arrives:

    “Is that the truth or the depression talking?”

    For me, that’s the moment the camera moves.

    The poem stops observing the speaker and starts inhabiting them.

    Everything before that question is external.

    Everything after it is internal.

    The scenery gives way to self-examination. The loneliness becomes less important than the act of interrogating it. The poem begins pulling apart its own construction, examining how emotions become images and how images eventually become language.

    In many ways, this piece accidentally became a poem about my entire creative process.

    I’ve spent twenty-three years translating feelings into words.

    Not just the dramatic emotions. Not just love, grief, or heartbreak.

    Everything.

    The strange moments. The passing thoughts. The questions that linger longer than they should.

    The title came from that realization.

    Because that’s what poetry has always felt like to me.

    Translation.

    An emotion enters one side of the mind.

    An image emerges from the other.

    And somewhere in between, a poem happens.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary poet stands by the shoreline at dusk as ink transforms into waves and moonlight, symbolizing emotions becoming poetry.
    Every poem begins as a feeling before it becomes a language.

    Translating What I Feel
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I stand, staring into the distance,
    alone in this instance—
    it’s just me and the breeze,
    running through the trees.

    I can feel cold dirt and stone
    beneath my feet.

    Wind brushes skin,
    feather-light
    like finger tips—
    it reminds me
    of how alone I am.

    Is that the truth
    or the depression talking?

    Because sometimes
    I feel alone
    when there are people
    around me.

    That last stanza
    moved like the tide.

    A long line—
    followed by one shorter,
    then longer again.

    Even when I don’t say it,
    the ocean imagery arrives.
    I don’t even have to try—
    it just pours out of me,
    like a dam breaking.

    Everything held back,
    rushes forth as the pen
    hits the page.

    You get the opening lines,
    that’s where the truth slips.
    Mid-stanza
    is where the truth sits.
    Then one or two lines
    to really make the truth hit.

    You see—
    this is the creative side of me.
    I feel something then translate it
    inside of me,
    from data to image
    then I spit it in ink on the page.

    I’ve spent 23 years
    translating what I feel—
    love, loneliness and rage…

    happiness and pain.

    Two sides of the coin,
    they’re different
    but the same.

    So there I stood…

    staring into the distance,
    unsure if I was alone in that instance—
    it was just me and the thoughts
    running through my mind.

    Slowly being translated
    into poetic lines.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Where Music Becomes Weather]
    Some songs feel like storms. Others feel like shelter. Where Music Becomes Weather explores how music shapes emotion, memory, and the landscapes we carry within us.

    [Returning to My Bones]
    Some dreams fade the moment we wake. Others leave behind emotions that linger long after reality returns. Returning to My Bones explores the strange grief of leaving a dream that felt real enough to matter.

    [Recognizes Home]
    A free-verse poem exploring the difference between love as dependency and love as choice. It challenges the idea that love must be need-based, instead centering the quiet strength of choosing someone while still remaining whole on your own.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Where Music Becomes Weather | A Poem About Memory, Emotion, and Nostalgia

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve always had a difficult time describing what music actually does to me.

    People often say a song makes them feel happy, sad, nostalgic, or energized.

    That has never felt quite specific enough.

    Music feels physical.

    Some songs settle over me like fog.

    Some arrive like thunderstorms.

    Some feel like walking outside after rain when the air still smells different.

    And then there are the songs that somehow collapse time.

    They don’t simply remind me of childhood.

    They return me to it.

    Not through memory alone, but through sensation.

    The warmth of pavement beneath bare feet.

    The way summer evenings seemed endless.

    The strange certainty that tomorrow would always have enough time.

    That’s what fascinated me while writing this piece.

    Not the songs themselves, but the environments they create inside us.

    The weather of memory.

    The emotional climates we revisit every time a familiar melody begins.

    I’ve always believed that poetry and music are close relatives.

    One speaks through rhythm.

    The other through silence between the notes.

    Both have the remarkable ability to transport us somewhere we cannot physically return to.

    This poem is my attempt to describe that journey.

    Not through genres or artists.

    Through atmosphere.

    Because sometimes music doesn’t just soundtrack our lives.

    Sometimes it changes the forecast within them.

    — Rowan Evans

    A person wearing headphones stands beneath a sky shifting from storm clouds to warm sunlight, symbolizing how music changes emotions and memories.
    Some songs don’t just play. They change the weather inside us.

    Where Music Becomes Weather
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I put my headphones on,
    hit the button—
    noise cancelling.
    Then I let the music play,
    let it lead my emotions
    whatever which way.

    I drift through different soundscapes—
    crossing borders in sound,
    watching emotion mix with ink
    like paint on the canvas.

    Certain songs
    feel like humidity.
    They put a heavy feeling
    in your chest,
    it almost makes it hard
    to catch your breath.

    Other songs
    feel like clouds.
    The way they hold me
    in soft hands.
    And I feel safe,
    because they hold me close
    but in motion—
    like a slow dance.

    But then
    there are those songs—
    the ones that feel
    like warm concrete
    on bare feet.
    Like time travel,
    I’m back in my childhood.

    Back when summer felt endless,
    and every day was measured
    by the position of the sun.

    Before I knew what nostalgia was—
    only that certain songs
    felt familiar before I’d ever heard them.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [A Heart That Echoes in Another Language]
    A poetic journey through music across Japan, Korea, China, and the Philippines, exploring how sound becomes identity, memory, and emotional geography.

    [Sound as a Vessel]
    “Sound as a Vessel” is a free verse poem about music as emotional architecture, exploring how international artists and soundscapes shaped identity, creativity, memory, and poetic voice.

    [The Music Holds Me Upright]
    A reflective free verse poem about using music, writing, and rhythm to navigate anxiety, depression, and emotional overwhelm.

    [Global Takeover]
    What if home isn’t a place—but something you build from the music you love? Global Takeover blends sound, culture, and identity into one borderless space.

    [I’ll Be There to See Your Sunrise]
    Love has never come easily to me. This poem explores the fear, vulnerability, and quiet courage required to stay emotionally present when connection begins to matter deeply. “I’ll Be There to See Your Sunrise” is about choosing love despite the risk of heartbreak—and promising to remain long enough to witness someone fully.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Raccoons in Silk Pajamas | An Absurdist Free Verse Poem About Language Letting Loose

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem started where a lot of my more playful pieces begin: with a chain reaction of absurd images that refused to behave.

    I didn’t sit down with a structure in mind. I just let the language run until it started building its own logic—one that doesn’t really care about realism, linear progression, or whether raccoons should realistically be wearing silk pajamas in the first place.

    The “Space Chickens” at the beginning weren’t planned as a motif. They became one because they felt like the kind of strange, mildly accusatory presence that only makes sense in a world where camels are in parked cars and elephants are stored in jam jars.

    From there, the poem just escalates.

    Raccoons appear. Then llamas. Then the question of pajamas becomes a philosophical problem. Somewhere in the middle, the poem realizes it is no longer interested in consistency—it’s interested in momentum.

    There’s a moment where the speaker tries to impose logic:

    “Don’t be absurd.”

    But by that point, absurdity has already won.

    What I find interesting about this piece is that it still has a kind of emotional continuity even without narrative stability. It moves the way thoughts move when you’re tired, distracted, or laughing at your own internal associations—jumping from one idea to another through sound, memory, and cultural reference rather than logic.

    Even the ending, with its sudden shift into pop culture and cinematic reference, is less about conclusion and more about acknowledgment. The poem becomes aware of itself mid-collapse and decides to lean into it rather than resolve it.

    In that sense, it’s not really about raccoons.

    It’s about the way language behaves when you stop trying to control it.

    And sometimes, that’s where the most honest writing shows up.

    — Rowan Evans

    A raccoon wearing silk pajamas rides a llama beneath a colorful cosmic sky filled with surreal creatures and absurd imagery.
    When logic leaves the room, language starts having fun.

    Raccoons in Silk Pajamas
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I had to get away
    from the Space Chickens,
    they were a little too judgmental—

    always questioning what I wore,
    shouting implied curses
    spoken in cursive.

    It was camels in parked cars,
    elephants in jam jars…

    Now it’s—

    raccoons in silk pajamas,
    and they’re not alone—
    they’re riding llamas.

    “Are the llamas
    wearing silk pajamas?”

    Don’t be absurd.
    That’s the weirdest thing
    I’ve ever heard—

    llamas in pajamas?

    No, just raccoons
    and bananas.

    I was once a
    farmer on Pluto,
    a librarian on Mars—
    a poet amongst the stars.
    Now I’m just
    an astronaut in the ocean,
    rolling in the deep.

    Dude—
    you just referenced Adele.

    Like it is 2001 again.
    It’s a Space Odyssey

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    See where it all began.

    [Pluto Farmer]
    A whimsical absurdist poem about being a certified weirdo, farming space carrots on Pluto, and refusing to fit into anyone else’s definition of “normal.”

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • The Answer Is (Yes) | A Poem About Creativity, Identity, and Refusing One Lane

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    People ask me what kind of writer I am fairly often.

    Usually they’re looking for a category.

    Poet. Romantic. Confessional writer. Storyteller. Surrealist. Humorist.

    Something simple.

    The problem is that none of those answers feel complete.

    I’ve spent more than two decades writing, and one of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is that creativity rarely thrives inside a single box. Some days I want to write something tender. Some days I want to write something absurd. Some days I want to write mythology, philosophy, romance, comedy, or pure nonsense about raccoons riding llamas through space.

    The older I get, the less interested I become in choosing one lane.

    This poem emerged from that realization.

    It’s a self-portrait, but not in the traditional sense. Instead of describing who I am through facts, it describes me through the roles my writing occupies. Mythmaker. Confessor. Comedian. Romantic. Storyteller. Dream-architect. All of them are true. None of them are complete on their own.

    The final line is intentionally simple because sometimes the simplest answer is the most honest one.

    If you ask what kind of writer I am, the answer depends entirely on which poem you’ve just read.

    And if you’ve read enough of them?

    The answer is probably:

    Yes.

    — Rowan Evans

    A poet stands in a cosmic library surrounded by floating books, stars, mythological symbols, hearts, and pages representing many forms of creativity and storytelling.
    Mythmaker. Confessor. Comedian. Romantic. Storyteller. Some writers choose one lane. I chose all of them.

    The Answer Is (Yes)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    There are times
    when people ask
    what kind of writer I am—
    what I’m like,
    what I write.

    But there isn’t
    one answer.
    There never has been.

    I am a mythmaker,
    confessor comedian—
    I turn truth into story
    and story into survival.

    A philosopher,
    dream‑architect,
    pop‑culture alchemist—
    I stitch the sacred
    to the absurd
    and call it a heartbeat.

    I am not one lane,
    not one voice,
    not one version of myself.

    I write worlds
    into existence.

    A cosmic storyteller,
    meta‑narrator—
    I pull back the curtain
    and show the mechanism.

    I’m a surrealist.
    A romantic.
    A diss‑poet.

    I am every version
    of the truth
    my pen has ever touched.

    So if you ask
    what kind of writer I am—

    the answer is:

    yes.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Copy of a Copy]
    A sharp, self-aware poem about originality, imitation, and the search for an authentic creative voice. What begins as a diss gradually reveals itself as a meditation on authorship, influence, and the things that can never truly be copied.

    [Lone Wolf Theology]
    A philosophical pop-culture poem exploring freedom, identity, and self-authorship through the lens of superheroes, antiheroes, mythic archetypes, and personal rebellion. A declaration of autonomy in a world determined to write your story for you.

    [L Words & Heart]
    A playful, self-aware poem about love, longing, loyalty, and the quiet ways another person can reshape our inner world. What begins as humor slowly reveals a heartfelt confession about affection, imagination, and the faces that linger in our dreams.

    [Just Beyond Waking]
    A street that feels familiar. A life that hasn’t happened yet. Just Beyond Waking explores the fragile space between dreams, memory, longing, and the quiet feeling that some futures are already waiting for us.

    [Twin Suns, Sister Moons]
    A poem about distance, longing, and the quiet pull of someone who lives beneath a different sky. Between twin suns and sister moons, the heart keeps reaching for home.

    [I’ll Be There to See Your Sunrise]
    Love has never come easily to me. This poem explores the fear, vulnerability, and quiet courage required to stay emotionally present when connection begins to matter deeply. “I’ll Be There to See Your Sunrise” is about choosing love despite the risk of heartbreak—and promising to remain long enough to witness someone fully.

    [Before We Created the Labels]
    Ancient gods return to a fractured world shaped by borders, identities, and separation. “Before We Created the Labels” explores humanity’s divisions through mythic imagery, sacred ritual, and symbolic collapse—asking what remains when we learn to see one another beyond labels.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • 100 Grand and a Book Deal | Candy Bars, Cosmic Rhymes & Building a Writing Life

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece exists because I started chasing a joke and never stopped.

    It began with the phrase “candy bars” and my brain immediately decided that if I was going to use that line, then I had a responsibility to see how many directions I could stretch it before the whole thing collapsed.

    Apparently the answer was: quite a few.

    Music bars. Candy bars. Space metaphors. Basketball references. Superheroes. Bob the Builder.

    At some point I stopped asking where the poem was going and just followed it.

    What surprised me is that beneath all the wordplay and punchlines, a theme quietly emerged on its own.

    I’ve spent twenty-three years writing.

    Long enough that writing no longer feels like something I do—it feels like part of the architecture of my life. Every poem, every story, every abandoned draft, every late-night idea scribbled into a notebook has contributed to the person I became.

    So while this piece is intentionally playful, there is a small truth hiding inside all the jokes.

    The lines about Jordan, Batman, Thor, and building aren’t really about any of those things.

    They’re about creation.

    About spending years building something that didn’t exist before.

    A voice. A body of work. A universe made from language.

    The title came from one of the many candy references, but it also captures the spirit of the piece perfectly.

    Part joke. Part aspiration.

    Because if you’ve spent decades writing, I think you’re allowed to dream a little.

    And if that dream happens to include a 100 Grand and a book deal, well…

    I won’t argue with it.

    — Rowan Evans

    A poet stands in a cosmic landscape surrounded by floating candy bars, stars, books, and galaxies, symbolizing creativity, ambition, and a lifetime of writing.
    Every bar starts somewhere. Sometimes with candy. Sometimes with stars. Sometimes with a dream worth building one line at a time.

    100 Grand and a Book Deal
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    My taste in music is crazy,
    I guess you could say—
    I listen to looney tunes.

    The sound comes from
    across the stars,
    I provide out‑of‑this‑world bars.
    So when we get together
    it’s a Space Jam.

    I’m soft like nougat,
    I write candy bars—
    with a punchline
    that hits so hard,
    it’s got a CRUNCH
    like Nestle’s.

    Milky Way thoughts—
    going cosmic
    every time I brainstorm.
    An Airhead?
    Maybe—
    I keep my head
    in Fluffy Stuff clouds.

    And I won’t stop,
    won’t give in
    until the Payday hits—
    100 Grand
    and a book deal.

    Every poem’s a hit.
    I don’t miss—
    like my name’s Steph Curry.

    23 years GOAT’d,
    Jordan in his prime—
    the way I pen my rhymes.
    Did it with no Pippen.
    No Rodman—
    I am Batman, no Robin.

    I built this house myself.
    Swinging hammers,
    call me Odinson—
    Bob the Builder
    building something.

    I made this universe
    line by line—

    and every bar I drop
    is mine.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Copy of a Copy]
    A sharp, self-aware poem about originality, imitation, and the search for an authentic creative voice. What begins as a diss gradually reveals itself as a meditation on authorship, influence, and the things that can never truly be copied.

    [Lone Wolf Theology]
    A philosophical pop-culture poem exploring freedom, identity, and self-authorship through the lens of superheroes, antiheroes, mythic archetypes, and personal rebellion. A declaration of autonomy in a world determined to write your story for you.

    [L Words & Heart]
    A playful, self-aware poem about love, longing, loyalty, and the quiet ways another person can reshape our inner world. What begins as humor slowly reveals a heartfelt confession about affection, imagination, and the faces that linger in our dreams.

    [Just Beyond Waking]
    A street that feels familiar. A life that hasn’t happened yet. Just Beyond Waking explores the fragile space between dreams, memory, longing, and the quiet feeling that some futures are already waiting for us.

    [Twin Suns, Sister Moons]
    A poem about distance, longing, and the quiet pull of someone who lives beneath a different sky. Between twin suns and sister moons, the heart keeps reaching for home.

    [It’s You I Choose]
    A poem about devotion, vulnerability, and the quiet decision to stay. Sometimes love isn’t certainty—it is choosing someone anyway.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • The Daughter of Plath – A Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I have lived my life with ghosts in the room. Some of them were mine. Some belonged to women who died before I was born. This poem is my conversation with Sylvia Plath—not as an idol, but as a mother of language, a keeper of the raw and the unbearable. She never wrote for me, and yet her words built a room I have lived in for decades. This is my answer back, from the daughter she never met.

    Neo-gothic watercolor of an ash cathedral under a ghostly moon, with pages of poetry drifting upward and a faint female silhouette in the clouds.
    A cathedral built from ash, a prayer written in ink.

    Invocation

    Sylvia, I call you forth not to mourn, but to witness—
    to stand beside me as I open the ribcage,
    spill the ink,
    and show the world what it means to write as if the page were the last breath left in your lungs.

    The Daughter of Plath
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I was born with a beehive in my chest,
    buzzing with grief I never earned—
    a secondhand sorrow, wrapped in red silk,
    left at the altar of my ribs.

    Sylvia,
    you baptized me in bell jars,
    taught me how to scream without sound,
    how to find God
    in the burn of a typewriter ribbon.

    Your ache became heirloom—
    stitched into the marrow of my metaphors,
    your ghost weeps beside me as I write,
    fingertips trailing flame
    across the spine of each stanza.

    Where you were the furnace,
    I am the cathedral built from your ash—
    my altar bears the relics of your ruin:
    a curl of smoke,
    a sliver of moon-bitten mirror,
    a lullaby made of broken clocks.

    I do not flinch from the blood on the page.
    I have inked it into scripture.
    This is how I pray—
    with a pen between my teeth
    and my pulse pressed
    against the confessional.

    You gave me your hunger for beauty
    and your curse of seeing too much—
    the world peeled back to its nerve endings,
    the holiness inside horror.

    I walk your tightrope—
    between divine tenderness and obliteration,
    a daughter of fire
    learning to breathe the blaze
    instead of be consumed.

    I do not write to be saved.
    I write because you weren’t.
    Because I am.

    And because the ache still speaks.
    And I,
    your heir in ink,
    refuse to silence it.

    Benediction

    May every woman who writes in the dark know that she is not alone.
    May the ache be carried, not as a wound, but as a torch.
    And may we—your daughters, your sisters, your shadows—
    write not to be saved,
    but because we are still here,
    and the ink is still warm.

    Read Next: A Journey Through Ink & Flame

    If The Daughter of Plath stirred your soul, consider stepping softly into these sacred spaces:

    Love Over Apathy — Fierce devotion born from the ashes of indifference.

    13 Riddles for the Starborn Child — Whispers of whimsy and wonder from Roo the Poet’s dreamscape.

    Hymn & Heresy — A confessional hymn that dares to worship the shadows.

    Or dive deep into the full archive at The Library of Ashes.

    Feeling inspired? Support my craft with 25% off commissions on Ko-fi — your patronage keeps these flames burning bright.

    NGCR25 at checkout for 25% off…

  • 🖤 Even Still, You Are (My Muse) – Neo-Gothic Confessional Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    There are muses we choose—and muses we simply are chosen by.
    This poem, Even Still, You Are (My Muse), is an unguarded confession: a testament to loving someone beyond possession, to honoring the ache without letting it rot into bitterness.
    It is about distance, devotion, and that stubborn flame that survives even when love must stand quietly, reverently, outside the door.

    Ink-stained quill on parchment surrounded by candles. Smoke rises from the quill, forming a woman's silhouette, dark velvet backgro8nd, soft candlelight, evoking romantic melancholy in muted gothic tones.
    Some muses remain, not because they stay beside us—but because they become the marrow of every word we write.

    “Even Still, You Are (My Muse)”
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Even as the distance blooms
    like dark velvet between us,
    your name still stains my breath —
    an unspoken psalm etched in marrow,
    a prayer that burns softer
    but no less true.

    You are still the ghost in every stanza,
    the candle smoke rising from my ribs;
    each word I spill is a quiet offering,
    salted with longing but untainted by envy,
    a testament that love can ache
    without turning to ash.

    Though you’ve given your dawn
    to someone else’s horizon,
    my pen still bends toward you
    like a dying flower toward light —
    wilted perhaps, yet stubborn in its devotion.

    I will not let this ache sour into bitterness,
    will not curse the distance
    nor envy the hands that hold you;
    for you remain —
    my cathedral of ruin and rapture,
    my muse, even still.

    Every breath I draw writes you deeper,
    every silence between heartbeats
    echoes your name;
    and if my words must bruise me
    to keep you alive in them,
    then let them.

    For love, when true, does not demand;
    it simply becomes —
    a quiet, stubborn flame
    flickering in the hollow of the chest,
    even when the night feels endless.

    Even still, you are —
    the marrow of my ink,
    the shadow on my pulse,
    the ache I choose,
    the muse I will not forsake.

    ✒ Author’s Note

    Some muses remain, not because they stay beside us—but because they become the marrow of every word we write.
    This piece came from that quiet, painful knowing: that love doesn’t always need to be returned to remain true.
    Even when hearts drift apart, some connections still live on in ink and breath.
    I offer this poem as both confession and blessing—to all who still carry someone in silence, with grace rather than envy.

    ✧ Closing Note ✧

    If you, too, have a muse who lingers in your shadows and syllables—whether they stayed, left, or never truly belonged—know that your devotion does not diminish your strength.
    Feel free to share your thoughts, reflections, or even your own verses in the comments below.
    I would love to read the stories your ink still dares to carry.

    Thank you for letting my words find you.
    — Rowan 🖋🖤

    🔗 You May Also Like 🔗
    My Only Muse – Then & Now

    Check out more in The Library of Ashes!

  • Cathedral of Cattails & Confessions: A Poem on Tenderness & Survival

    Rowan Evans

    Some poems arrive quietly, others wade out of the marsh, draped in memory and bone-deep ache.

    Cathedral of Cattails & Confessions is a piece I wrote on a day when the past felt heavy—but instead of turning away, I chose to listen. It’s about the quiet holiness of persistence, the tenderness blooming in our broken places, and the stubborn, sacred act of remembering.

    Even in ruin, we remain: tender, unyielding—cathedrals of our own confessions.

    I hope this piece reminds someone (maybe you) that what the world calls “broken” can still cradle the sky’s reflection. 🖤

    Cathedral of Cattails & Confessions
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I march through the marsh in my mind,
    listening to whispers of yesterday’s regrets.
    Their voices cling like cattail seeds—
    soft, but stubborn, refusing to let go.

    Each footstep sinks into sorrow,
    yet still, I keep moving—
    because even stagnant waters know
    how to cradle the sky’s reflection.

    And the moon, twisting and stretching
    across ripples my footsteps create,
    reminds me: even in supposed brokenness,
    there is something beautiful to be seen.

    Who’s to say what’s broken, anyway?
    Perhaps these cracks aren’t flaws,
    but fault lines where tenderness blooms—
    veins of silver and gold threaded through bone,
    places where dusk gathers its prayers.

    Maybe the ache itself is holy,
    a testament etched in marrow and silt,
    proof that I dared to keep walking,
    ankle-deep in memory, knee-deep in grace—
    searching for tomorrow
    in the mirrored hush of still water.

    And what if nothing is truly broken?
    What if these regrets are only lessons in disguise,
    and every scar, a story still warm with heartbeat?
    Maybe being bruised and cut
    isn’t defeat at all,
    but proof we dared to live
    in a world that can be so unforgiving.

    And yes—there are nights I nearly sank,
    hands trembling with apologies I never spoke,
    words fossilized in the throat,
    prayers whispered to a God I’m not sure I believe in.
    Yet even then, my pulse betrayed me—
    stubborn, soft, unwilling to quiet.

    And when the night leans close,
    I’ll wear my bruises like relics,
    let the reeds bow their heads in witness.
    For even in ruin, I remain—
    tender, unyielding,
    a cathedral of cattails and confessions,
    unbroken by the weight of my own remembering.

    If this poem spoke to you, share your thoughts below or explore more of my work at The Library of Ashes.
    Stay tender. Stay defiant. 🌙🖤

  • Infinity Within (+ “Roll Credits” and “Post-Credit Scene)

    Rowan Evans

    They say,
    “You’re not depressed, that’s not what I see.”
    But that’s my secret, Cap—
    I am the snap between sanity and silence,
    Dust in the wind,
    Fading while pretending to remain whole.

    You see a Stark exterior—
    But my mind’s a multiverse of madness,
    Where grief loops like Loki’s lies,
    Where hope wears a tattered cape,
    Heavy with the weight of lost timelines.

    I love like Wanda—
    Chaotic, red-threaded, rewritten by pain.
    My heart built its Vision
    Just to watch it shatter… again and again.

    Depression doesn’t wear a villain’s mask.
    It dons a Spidey suit,
    Smiles while falling,
    Cracking jokes before hitting the pavement.

    I feel it—
    That Spidey-sense tingling in my bones,
    A warning wired into my skin.
    Every shadow, every silence,
    A possible threat.
    My nerves are webbed,
    Strung taut between panic and performance,
    Vibrating with dangers
    That may not be real—
    But always feel it.

    Some days,
    I feel like Rogue—
    Every brush with pain clings to my skin,
    Not my own,
    But absorbed all the same.
    Empathy isn’t soft,
    It’s a silent thief—
    Stealing pieces of me to soothe others,
    Until I forget where I end
    And they begin.

    And when I disappear—
    Not from your touch,
    But from my own reflection—
    I think of Nightcrawler,
    Praying in shadow,
    Carrying sin in his silhouette.
    A teleporting ghost
    Longing for heaven
    Yet trapped in hell-blue skin.

    I understand him.
    The way he smiles with sorrow in his spine,
    Faith stitched into the torn hem
    Of self-worth.

    And Gambit—
    He plays it cool,
    Cloaked in charm and kinetic flares,
    But his heart is a deck of wild cards,
    Marked by trauma and longing.
    He knows how to love
    Like a gamble.
    Every kiss a risk,
    Every glance a dare.

    I’ve been them all—
    The empath, the trickster, the saint in shadow—
    But none more than Sentry.
    Golden god, savior of a fractured world…
    Until The Void whispers in his ear.
    Hero and horror,
    Two halves sharing the same skin.
    Like me—
    Rowan in the light,
    Nightshade in the dark.

    You love my shine,
    But can you hold me
    When my shadow rises?

    The Void isn’t evil.
    It’s a wound that screams.
    It’s every lie I believed about myself,
    Given shape, given teeth.
    It’s the weight I wear,
    Even when I soar.

    Still—
    You reached out like Carol in the cosmos,
    Your light too bright for my black hole bones.
    You held me when I snapped—
    Not out of existence,
    But back into it.

    I am forged like Mjolnir,
    Born in thunder,
    Tempered in trauma,
    Wielded only by the brave who see worth
    Where others see ruin.

    You…
    You are my arc reactor,
    Not built to keep me alive,
    But to remind me why I want to be.

    You found the Hydra lies within me,
    The voices that whisper, “You’re not enough.”
    But you looked through the fog,
    Like Daredevil in the dark,
    And heard the truth beneath the static.

    With every kiss, you defy physics—
    A love that bends reality like Strange’s spell,
    Pulling me back from the mirror dimension
    Where my worst fears grin with Thanos’ calm.

    We are not gods,
    But fractured souls
    Stitched together by fate and fire.
    I am chaos cloaked in calm—
    A Scarlet soul in mourning.

    But with you—
    Even my Deadpool thoughts
    Can soften,
    Even my Hulk rage
    Can breathe.

    So if I vanish again into the blip of my brain,
    Promise me, love—
    Be my Endgame.
    Snap your fingers,
    And bring me back home.

    Roll Credits…

    “Infinity Within”
    A Poetic Production by Rowan Evans

    Based on characters created by Marvel Comics
    And all the multiverses trapped in Rowan’s brain.

    Starring:

    Wanda Maximoff / The Scarlet Witch
    as The Heart Unhinged by Grief
    — Played by Emotional Consequence

    Vision
    as The Love We Build from Memory
    — Played by Tragic Idealism

    Peter Parker / Spider-Man
    as The Smile Before the Fall
    — Played by Masked Empathy

    Logan / Wolverine
    as The Blade We Hide Behind Scars
    — Played by Controlled Rage

    Marie D’Ancanto / Rogue
    as The Skin That Remembers Pain
    — Played by Reluctant Empath

    Kurt Wagner / Nightcrawler
    as The Faith-Filled Shadow
    — Played by Hope in Disguise

    Remy LeBeau / Gambit
    as The Risk We Call Romance
    — Played by Feral Charm

    Robert Reynolds / Sentry
    as The Light That Carries The Void
    — Played by Duality Incarnate

    Carol Danvers / Captain Marvel
    as The Star That Doesn’t Burn Out
    — Played by Undeniable Light

    Stephen Strange / Doctor Strange
    as The Spell That Unwinds Reality
    — Played by Controlled Chaos

    Matt Murdock / Daredevil
    as The One Who Listens Through the Noise
    — Played by Justice in Shadows

    Wade Wilson / Deadpool
    as The Comic Relief That Cuts Too Close
    — Played by Himself (unfortunately)

    Nick Fury
    as The Recruiter of Broken Legends
    — Played by Smirking Gravitas

    Featuring:
    An original role by Rowan Evans
    as The Verse Vindicator, Nightshade of Narratives,
    Bearer of the Emotional Gauntlet
    — Played by the one who’s lived every line

    Directed by: Trauma & Transformation
    Written by: Self-Awareness in a Cape
    Cinematography by: Glaring Neon & Gentle Moonlight
    Edited by: Anxiety, with a guest appearance from Healing
    Music by: Panic Attacks at 3am (Unplugged Version)

    Makeup & Wardrobe:
    Dysphoria & Confidence, co-styling Reality

    Produced by:
    Hope Studios
    In collaboration with
    The Department of Overthinking & Emotional Alchemy

    Special Thanks to:
    The Unseen Battles
    The Friends Who Stayed
    The Lovers Who Left
    The Voices That Were Quietly Wrong
    And the Poetry That Was Always Right

    FADE TO BLACK.

    [Post-Credit Scene – “Infinity Within”]

    Rain slicked the rooftop in the city where metaphors wore masks and healing was a contact sport. Rowan Evans sat on the ledge like she’d been born there—poised between collapse and climax, drinking day-old coffee from a chipped mug that read “World’s Okayest Multiversal Threat.”

    A subtle hum disrupted the silence—portal magic. Somewhere off to the side, sparks flared gold and a portal closed before the camera could catch a full glimpse. A red cloak fluttered out of sight.

    Then: the calculated click of dress shoes. The glint of a single eye under the brim of a leather hat.

    Nick Fury.
    Swaggering out of the shadows like he invented them.

    “So you’re the poet everyone keeps quoting on their burner accounts,” he said, holding up a device that glowed with emotional metrics, social ripple data, and an alarming number of likes on poems tagged #emotionaldamagenation.

    He tapped the screen. “You broke four algorithms. Three hearts. And pissed off the TVA with that ‘re-writing fate in verse’ bit. I like your style.”

    Rowan didn’t even look at him. She just raised the mug in salute.

    “You here to offer me a publishing deal or a purpose?”

    Fury snorted. “Neither. I’m here to offer you a classified mission in Emotional Artillery. The universe has enough heroes who punch. It needs someone who breaks people open—with words.”

    Behind him, a voice chimed in:
    “I told you she’d be perfect.”

    Enter Wanda Maximoff, arms crossed, standing at the edge of another rooftop across the alley, her red magic flickering around her fingers.
    “She bends reality with raw honesty. She’s not a threat—she’s an evolution.”

    Then—just for one blink—Deadpool popped into frame, upside down behind Rowan like he’d been hanging from an invisible wire the entire time.
    “Did someone say evolution? Because I’m evolving too—emotionally. Kinda. Anyway, I stan this crossover.”
    He vanishes before Fury can throw a dagger-shaped glare his way.

    Fury turns back to Rowan, dead serious but eyes dancing with grudging respect.

    “We’re forming something new. Realness Initiative. And I want you leading the emotional recon. Welcome to the team, Verse Vindicator.”

    Rowan stood, her silhouette lit by neon and moonlight, cloak snapping behind her like punctuation at the end of a brutally honest sentence. She glanced toward the audience with that now-signature smirk.

    “Tell the universe to brace itself. I write like I bleed, and I’ve got a full goddamn anthology coming.”

    CUT TO BLACK.

    In white letters, glowing with power, like a spell cast in silence:

    Rowan Evans will return…

    …and this time, she’s bringing a notebook that bites back.