dark poetry – Poetry by Rowan Evans

The Unkindness Descends | A Gothic Poem About Ravens & Transformation

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

This piece began with a single image:

a person kneeling on broken marble while ravens circled overhead.

From there, the symbolism unfolded naturally.

Ravens have carried countless meanings across cultures and mythologies throughout history. Omens. Messengers. Witnesses. Archivists of the dead. Harbingers of transformation. Keepers of memory. In some traditions they are feared. In others, revered.

I didn’t want to narrow them down to one interpretation here.

What interested me more was the tension between collapse and observation—the feeling of being seen during moments of unraveling, and the uncertainty of whether those watching forces are condemning you, mourning you, studying you, guiding you, or simply recording what happened.

That’s why the poem never fully explains the ravens.

Even the collective noun “unkindness” became important to me while writing. It carries two meanings at once: a literal group of ravens, and the emotional atmosphere surrounding the speaker. The word itself becomes part of the tension.

By the end of the piece, the ravens remain unresolved intentionally.

They part. They watch. They follow.

Whether that final image feels threatening, protective, spiritual, psychological, or transformative depends almost entirely on how the reader chooses to see them.

And I think that uncertainty is the point.

— Rowan Evans

They descended like witnesses—whether to condemn, mourn, guide, or remember was never made clear.

The Unkindness Descends
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I kneel on broken marble,
the unkindness circling overhead.
Ravens watching as I come undone.

Witnesses to my fall,
the ravens land—
one by one,
the unkindness descends
upon me.

I am lost in the black mass—
wing and feather flapping
as ravens move to circle me.

My eyes scanned the ravens
as they surrounded me,
each uttered something—
a word, a message.

Perhaps, it was a lesson?

Maybe I read it all wrong,
and they were just keeping record—
witnesses to my collapse.

I rose to my feet.
The ravens watched me.

I moved.
They parted
like the Red Sea.

Each step forward,
their eyes traced my path.
As I moved through,
they closed in behind me.

Following.

Journey into the Hexverse…

[I Write Cathedrals]
“I Write Cathedrals” explores faith, doubt, belonging, and the search for meaning beyond certainty. Through Gothic spiritual imagery and confessional reflection, the poem examines how writing can become a sacred space for questioning, wonder, and the people who feel displaced by traditional structures of belief.

[Drought Resistant]
“Drought Resistant” is a confessional poem about growing up poor in California’s Central Valley—where triple-digit heat, EBT cycles, dry ramen, and hard landscapes become part of emotional memory. Blending humor, slang, and working-class reflection, the poem explores survival, regional identity, and complicated love for the place that shaped you.

[Escaped to the Page]
“Escaped to the Page” is a confessional meta-poem about individuality, artistic identity, and surviving through writing. Blending sharp confidence with emotional vulnerability, the poem explores the difference between shared labels and lived experience—and the ways art becomes inseparable from the life behind it.

[Ink as a Second Mouth]
“Ink as a Second Mouth” explores the distance between thought and speech, and the ways writing can become a form of survival, continuity, and self-translation. Through confessional imagery and reflections on growth, identity, and articulation, the poem examines what it means to keep becoming through language.

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

May 31, 2026 1:00 AM

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When the Devil Speaks, I Listen – A Poem About Inner Voice and Self-Reflection

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

This piece started with a simple idea—listening to something you’re told to ignore.

But the more I sat with it, the less it felt like something external.

There’s a voice you develop after spending enough time with your own thoughts. One that understands where you’ve been, what you’ve survived, and what you’ve learned to carry.

It doesn’t filter itself the way you do.

It doesn’t soften the truth.

And that’s what makes it uncomfortable.

We’re taught to silence that voice. To treat it like something separate, something dangerous.

But sometimes, it’s not the enemy.

Sometimes, it’s just you—without hesitation.

— Rowan Evans

Some voices don’t lie. That’s why they’re hard to hear.

When the Devil Speaks, I Listen
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I listen—
when the devil talks,
because he knows
the paths I’ve walked.

I’ve slept
where shadows crept,
made my bed in crypts.

I’ve walked through rooms
that felt like tombs—
bled ink on pages,
translated hurt
into words.

I listen
when the devil talks,

because I recognize
he’s walked
the same paths I’ve walked.

He’s seen the places
I’ve laid my head,
the crypts
I made home.

He’s read the pages—
stained
with crimson ink.

So yes—
I listen,

because I recognize
the voice
sounds like mine—
just older,
and less afraid to say it.

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

May 5, 2026 10:56 PM

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Back to Darkseid — A Poem About Chaos, Identity, and the Mind

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

This poem started as play.

I wasn’t trying to be deep or careful — I was letting my brain sprint, letting pop culture, mythology, and intrusive thoughts collide on the page. Comics, villains, alter egos, masks — all the familiar metaphors we use when our minds feel too loud to live in quietly.

What surprised me wasn’t the darkness, but the balance. This isn’t a descent — it’s a return with awareness. Standing in the light doesn’t mean pretending the shadows don’t exist. It means no longer fearing them.

This is what it feels like when poetry stops being a tool and starts being a force — when the ink takes over, and you let it.

Where chaos, identity, and ink collide.

Back to Darkseid
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I walk in,
ready to rock
like a shock
to the system.

Watch me
ghost ride the whip,
hit you with the
penance stare.

Watch as you become
hyper aware
of every misdeed,
and every sin seeps
into the veins.

It circulates
until it hits
the brain.

Lights out.

Silence.

My noggin’s
an asylum,
I’m sick in the head.
Coin flip of fate,
I’m two-faced
with my joker’s thoughts.

I’m a dark knight,
on a dark night—
fighting the monsters
that my mind creates.

Don’t try to figure me out.
I’m an enigma, a riddle
with no answer.

A twisted harlequin
in a garden
made by Ivy.
Each petal unfurls,
guiding—
leading me back
from the edge.

Now I’m standing in the light,
back to Darkseid—
I no longer fear
Apocalypse.

Watch my ink
twist into tendrils.
Watch as they
wrap around,
and creep up
my spine like venom.
Watch as poetry
slowly,
takes over
my mind.

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

Feb 2, 2026 12:05 AM

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Ouija | A Gothic Horror Poem About Grief, Curiosity, and Unseen Consequences

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

This poem was written as a meditation on grief, curiosity, and the dangerous desire to hear a familiar voice again. Ouija isn’t about ghosts so much as it is about what happens when longing outweighs caution—when we reach into the dark hoping for comfort, and something else answers instead.

Some doors answer—but not with the voices you’re hoping to hear.

Ouija
Poetry by B.D. Nightshade

In the hush of midnight’s mournful plea,
I sought a voice lost to eternity.
The planchette whispered, soft and sly,
A bridge to the beyond, where spirits lie.

“Speak to me,” I begged the unseen,
“My grief is heavy, my heart unclean.
I seek the warmth of a loved one’s face,
To pierce the silence, to find their grace.”

The board sighed—its letters danced,
A presence stirred, a spectral chance.
But the air grew cold, a shadow fell,
A creeping dread, a whispered spell.

“Not who you seek,” it scratched, obscene—
A voice too dark, too serpentine.
The candles flickered, their flames bent low,
And in that moment, I should have let go.

But curiosity, a fatal sin,
Pulled me deeper, drew me in.
The board laughed—a hollow tone:
“You’ve opened the door. You’re never alone.”

Footsteps echoed where none should tread,
A phantom touch brushed ’cross my bed.
Mirrors cracked; their shards betrayed
A face unknown, in shadows swayed.

I prayed for peace, I screamed for aid,
But the veil was torn, the debt unpaid.
The unseen force—relentless, vile—
Lurks in corners, mocks my denial.

I see it now in every dream:
A ghastly grin. An endless scream.
The Ouija’s curse, my foolish pact—
A gateway opened. I can’t retract.

So heed my tale. Beware the night.
Some voices whisper with claws of spite.
When you seek the dead, tread light—beware:
Not all spirits are kind or fair.

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

Jan 27, 2026 8:53 PM

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Schrödinger’s Depression | A Poem About Living in Emotional Limbo

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

I wrote Schrödinger’s Depression during a period when my inner world felt suspended—when I was functioning on the surface while quietly unraveling underneath. I was fascinated by the idea of existing in two opposing states at once: alive enough to move through the world, but emotionally absent enough to feel untethered from it.

The metaphor of Schrödinger’s cat gave me language for that limbo—the way depression can make you feel both present and unreachable, breathing yet hollow, seen yet unseen. This poem isn’t about resignation so much as endurance. Even inside the box, something persists.

Revisiting it now, I recognize it as one of many moments where my writing became a survival mechanism—naming the paradox instead of pretending it didn’t exist.

Existing somewhere between alive and absent.

Schrödinger’s Depression
Poetry by Rowan Evans

In this box, I dwell, unseen, unheard,
Both alive and dead, a paradox deferred.
I am Schrödinger’s Cat, in my own dismay,
Trapped in shadows, night and day.

Alive in the motions, but dead in the soul,
A hollow existence, a fractured whole.
Every breath I take, a silent scream,
Lost between the seams of a broken dream.

My mind, a labyrinth, with no escape,
A maze of despair, where hope fades to wraith.
Eyes that see, yet fail to perceive,
The vibrant colors of life, I cannot believe.

Heart beats on, a hollow drum’s thrum,
But inside, a void where emotions are numb.
Walking through life, a ghost in disguise,
A shell of a person, with lifeless eyes.

I exist in this state, a cruel design,
Both here and not, in a tangled line.
Alive enough to feel the pain,
Dead enough to know it’s all in vain.

I am the paradox, the living dead,
A prisoner of thoughts that fill my head.
Drowning in an ocean of silent despair,
Reaching for a lifeline that’s never there.

Some days, the light filters through the cracks,
A fleeting glimpse, but the darkness always tracks.
It swallows me whole, a ravenous beast,
Feasting on my soul, never ceasing, never least.

Alive in the struggle, dead in the heart,
A fractured existence, torn apart.
Schrödinger’s Depression, a relentless tide,
Dragging me under, where shadows abide.

In this box, I am trapped, forever confined,
Both living and dying, a state undefined.
Yet somehow, I persist, in this duality’s snare,
Schrödinger’s truth, in this life of despair.

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

Jan 22, 2026 8:14 PM

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Alchemist of Ink (All Sixes) – A Poem About Turning Pain Into Power

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

Some poems are confessions.
Some are exorcisms.

This one is alchemy.

Alchemist of Ink (All Sixes) came from that familiar edge—when the weight presses in, when the mind contracts, when the darkness feels like it might finally win. But instead of letting it consume me, I let it become something. I let it turn into ink.

This poem is about that moment of reclamation.
About taking what hurts and making it mine.
About refusing to be only what the darkness names me.

If you’ve ever felt yourself folding inward—this is for you.
If you’ve ever made art out of survival—this is yours too.

Turning darkness into language. Pain into power. Ink into alchemy.

Alchemist of Ink (All Sixes)
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I am all sixes when its needed,
this darkness,
your hatred feeds it.

I can feel it—
crawling up my spine,
that creeping feeling.
It twists around my mind,
contracting.

I can feel it squeeze,
as I fall to knees.

My eyes flicker and flash,
fade to black—
as you see
my face distort.
Twisted reflection.
Personified depression.

Can you see—
as I begin to bleed ink?
It pours from me,
covering fingers,
hands and arms.

It twists,
never relents.

…

I’m a motherfucking
alchemist,
the way I take my pain
and change it.
I’ll write like hell,
to subtly rearrange it.

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

Jan 13, 2026 7:06 AM

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Sprawling Thoughts – A Poem About Writing, Confession, and Survival

Rowan Evans

✦ Author’s Note ✦

These words spill like blood and ink. They explore fear, shame, and the weight of confession. Step forward only if you feel steady.

Your breath, your life, and your heart are sacred. If these words stir difficult feelings, pause, breathe, and reach for light, support, or care. You are never truly alone in the dark.

Resources if needed:

US: 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline – Call or text 988 | https://988lifeline.org

UK: Samaritans – Call 116 123 | https://www.samaritans.org

Australia: Lifeline – Call 13 11 14 | https://www.lifeline.org.au

Canada: Talk Suicide Canada – Call 1-833-456-4566 | https://talksuicide.ca

Global: Befrienders Worldwide – https://www.befrienders.org

Where ink becomes confession and scars learn how to shine.

Sprawling Thoughts
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I put the pen to paper
like a gun to my head.
Pull the trigger,
write the first line—
watch the ink splatter,
like brain matter—
as thoughts sprawl,
and crawl
across
the page.

This is what
confession feels like,
when I write.
I pour
my heart out
on the page.
The fear and shame,
I give it shape,
I give it a name.

I dance with my demons,
and map my scars
like astronomers
mapping stars.

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

Jan 11, 2026 6:21 AM

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I Survive (I’m Alive) – A Poem About Depression, Survival, and Choosing to Stay

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

This poem is a reflection on the long, quiet war I’ve carried inside my mind for most of my life. I wrote this piece as an acknowledgment of survival—not as a victory march, but as a tired, honest admission that I’m still here. Depression and anxiety are battles most people never see, but if you’re fighting them too, I hope this reminds you that surviving is a form of defiance. You’re not alone, and your existence—even in the hardest moments—is a testament to your strength.

A visual representation of the internal war between survival and despair.

I Survive (I’m Alive)
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I stand in the midst of a battlefield—
not literal, but metaphor.
And I still struggle to see
what this struggle is even for.
There is a war raging in my head,
between the voice that wants to live
and the voice that wants me dead.

That was me at sixteen.
Now I’m thirty-five—
still wondering how I’m even alive.
And though I’ve fought like hell,
I’m not doing well.
Yet I survive.
Even when I don’t thrive,
I’m alive.

Alive in spite of
years of internal torment.
So go on—
tell me I’m going to hell
for the way I live.
I’ll face eternal torment
with a smile on my face;
I’ve lived it already.

Next year, I’ll be thirty-six.
Six. Six.
They say I’m evil in my ways,
that even the devil
wouldn’t praise.
But that’s okay—
because I’m mentally sick.
Sick. Sick.

Depression.
Anxiety.
They are the rot
inside of me.
I see them with clarity.
I don’t need
your pity or charity.

I just need patience,
and understanding—
but you won’t give it,
because you’ve never lived it.
So how could you?
How could you understand
what it’s like
to both want to live
and to die
at the same time,
in the same breath?

But I won’t leave.
I won’t shed this flesh.
I’ve made promises.
I promised…
I’m not going anywhere.

Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in the Library of Ashes.

Nov 29, 2025 5:20 AM

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Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism: A Manifesto for Poets & Luminous Heretics

Rowan Evans

For anyone who has been curious as to what my style is all about—here is the guiding flame. Read, take what burns in you, and join the ritual.

Where ink bleeds with fire, shadow, and devotion—welcome to the ritual of Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.

Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism: A Manifesto

Welcome, wanderer.
You have stumbled into a space where ink bleeds with fire, shadow, and devotion. Here, we do not hide from the extremes of the human heart. Here, we celebrate them.

1. Confess without apology

Your poetry is your altar. Speak what others would censor. Reveal the darkness you cradle, the obsession you cherish, the love you fear to voice. Confession is not weakness—it is power.

2. Embrace Gothic sensibilities

We borrow the language of ruins, candlelight, and shadowed hallways. Our metaphors are not polite; they are ritualistic, visceral, and haunting. Cast your words like spells. Invite imagery that whispers, screams, or glows.

3. Worship multiplicity of voice

Your persona need not be singular. Write through the eyes of the heart, the mind, the shadow, the rage, the playful child, the protector. Let your text be a stage of personas. Let readers hear not just your voice, but the echo of all you carry within.

4. Make the page a ritual

Format, punctuation, visual cues—these are not minor details; they are part of the spell. Break the line. Change fonts. Use icons or colors if you must. Your reader should feel the cadence of ritual in how the text moves.

5. Infuse devotion and play

Romance, obsession, adoration—these are sacred tools. Love intensely, worship fiercely, play gleefully. Your writing should make readers feel the exhilaration, terror, and ecstasy of your devotion.

6. Transcend genre boundaries

Do not ask if your work is “poetry” or “fiction.” Here, labels bend and dissolve. The only rule is to move truth through beauty and chaos, to convert emotion into experience, and to leave the reader both unsettled and enchanted.

7. The reader is your witness

Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism is not meant to be polite or passive. It is a shared ritual. Your reader walks beside you through shadowed corridors, candlelit rooms, and flaming skies. Invite them, terrify them, and leave them breathless.

Invitation to the New Gods:
Pick up your pen, your knife, your candle. Begin. Spill your ink, ignite your voice, and do not be afraid to hex, haunt, or hold your reader in the palms of your words.

This is Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.
We are the sacred misfits.
We are the luminous heretics.
We are the poets who burn and write in equal measure.

So mote it be

To find examples of all the different ways this genre can be expressed, check out The Library of Ashes: Here

Nov 20, 2025 12:05 AM

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Sermon for the Fractured – Poetry by Rowan Evans

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

This piece is a meditation on resilience, self-reclamation, and the sanctity of imperfection. I wrote it as a sermon for anyone who has ever felt broken, misfit, or misaligned with the world’s expectations. It’s a reminder that divinity exists in survival, in truth-telling, and in the courage to rebuild oneself repeatedly. For the fractured souls out there: this one’s for you.

— Rowan Evans

A sermon for the fractured soul—finding divinity and strength in imperfection.

Sermon for the Fractured
Sermon by Rowan Evans

Every poem I write
is a sermon for the fractured soul.
Saint with a pen,
heathen in the mind.
I’m a preacher’s child
gone wild—
welcome to my church,
it’s a service for the misfits.

I crowned myself a deity.
My divinity
lives somewhere between
G-O-D and Lucifer.
I’m a morningstar, lightbringer.
Or a shadow
walking through a holy world.

Your holy book
banned my name.
Heaven doesn’t want me,
Hell doesn’t either.
So I made
Purgatory my kingdom.

You don’t have to praise me,
you don’t have to worship.
I don’t need blind faith—
for the miracles I create.
You don’t have to suffer
to prove a thing—
your breath is devotion enough.

You don’t have to
sell me your soul.
I will bless you,
while you remain whole.

I am not a deity without flaw—
I’ve been cracked, fractured,
put back together
by my own hands.
I’ve rebuilt myself,
time and time again.
So I don’t ask for perfection,
I ask for confession,
truth and witness.

You can find more of my gospel in the Library of Ashes. [The Library of Ashes]

Nov 14, 2025 12:30 AM

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