This feels nocturnal. Drawn to light. A little dangerous. A little beautiful. A little inevitable.
This piece is about that shift—when attraction doesn’t feel like nerves, but like gravity. When someone walks past all your defenses without even trying.
And you realize the thing flutter inside you isn’t innocent.
It’s intentional.
— Rowan Evans
They said butterflies. But this feels nocturnal.
I’ve Got Moths In My Stomach Poetry by Rowan Evans
They say this feeling
that I’m feeling is—
butterflies in my stomach.
They say I should love it,
but it feels
a little too gothic.
I think they might be moths,
because they flutter more—
when the day fades into
night’s decay.
It’s beautiful.
The way they respond
to the light in you.
Dancing to a hidden beat,
wings fluttering, happy feet—
heat pulling like a vivid dream,
thoughts of you,
slip through
seams unseen.
And there is no defense for this—
you leave me defenseless. It’s
insane, how easy it is.
You just walked right by
everything I ever learned
to keep me safe.
This poem was born from the quiet moments between winter’s chill and candlelight, where shadows linger and hearts search for warmth. Gothic Christmas is my meditation on light and darkness coexisting—how even in cold, silent streets, a flicker of hope can endure. It is for those who find beauty in the night, who embrace the melancholic as much as the joyous, and who believe that love and light can exist even in the most shadowed corners.
A flicker of hope shines in the gothic winter night.
Gothic Christmas Poetry by Rowan Evans
In the heart of winter’s embrace,
Where shadows linger in every space,
A Christmas tale unfolds tonight,
In the realm of darkness, devoid of light.
The moon, a pale and distant gleam,
Casts shadows on the icy stream.
A lone figure roams the streets,
Where silence reigns and coldness meets.
Gothic spires against the sky,
Reach for heaven, where angels fly.
But in these streets, no joyous cheer,
Only whispers of a darker fear.
Beneath the eaves of ancient stone,
The windswept trees their branches moan.
Through cobbled lanes and narrow ways,
A figure in the darkness strays.
No merry carols fill the air,
No laughter heard, no spirit rare.
Only the echo of footsteps light,
Through the haunted, silent night.
But in a corner, dim and cold,
A flicker of candle, ancient and old.
A figure kneels in silent prayer,
Amidst the shadows, deep despair.
For Christmas here is not the same,
In this gothic land of ancient fame.
But in the heart, a flicker, too,
A flame of hope, both old and new.
For in the darkness, cold and stark,
There beats a heart, a tiny spark.
A whisper soft, a promise true,
Of light and love, for me and you.
So in this gothic Christmas night,
Amidst the shadows, cold and white,
Let’s hold onto that flicker bright,
And dream of morning’s gentle light.
Shadows and Stars grew out of that quiet kind of love that doesn’t ask for transformation—only truth. It’s a devotion rooted in darkness as much as light, where two imperfect people find a rhythm that doesn’t require saving or fixing, just seeing. This poem is about loving someone exactly as they are—the sharp edges, the softness, the chaos, the fire—and trusting that the right souls don’t dilute each other. They orbit together.
Two souls, bound by gravity and devotion, meeting where shadow and starlight become one.
Shadows and Stars Poetry by Rowan Evans
I am not here to save you,
because I am no savior.
And you—
you are no damsel in distress,
you’re just stressed.
Life might be
somewhat of a mess,
but you’re still worth it,
nonetheless.
And I’m not here to fix you,
because you’re not a fixer-upper.
You’re a person—
complex and perfect
in your imperfections.
Your darkness
matches mine.
I find,
in these shadows,
we’re two of a kind,
you and I.
No, I don’t want to change you.
Why would I want to change you?
To change you would be to
sand down the edges I’ve come to love.
You see—
I love it when you’re mean.
I love the bite, the burn, the sting.
I love when you talk shit,
spit venom.
You say you’re crazy? I love that too.
I love the attitude, the dominance you exude,
and I love it when you’re gentle.
It’s simple—
it’s you. It’s always been.
Two stars, orbit in tandem.
And here we stay,
constellations intertwined,
your shadows in my light,
my darkness in your shine.
This poem carries pieces of a real exchange—one spark of truth that ignited the rest. Whisper Me Across is half confession, half invocation: a conversation remembered, reimagined, and rewritten in the language of devotion. Reality is the match; the poem is the flame.
— Rowan Evans
An echo of devotion that lingers across worlds.
Whisper Me Across Poetry by Rowan Evans
I know we’ve joked about this—
tossed it around in little quips,
laughing so we wouldn’t feel
the weight beneath it.
But I have a genuine request.
If you pass,
promise you’ll haunt me.
Be the knock in the wall,
the whistle in the breeze—
the chill of air that drifts in
and brushes against my cheek.
Promise you’ll let me know you’re there.
Don’t leave me wondering,
don’t make me question.
If you want me to survive it,
you’ll have to give me a sign—
because I would happily die
just to cross over and meet you
on the other side.
And I promise the same.
I’ll be the voice you hear
leaning into your ear,
quietly saying your name.
I’ll be the presence that settles
behind your ribs
when you feel a sudden surge of strength
and choose to push through.
That will be me—
still with you.
I’ll be the voice that pushes back
each time you falter.
When you think you’re not worthy,
not worth it—
I’ll be the whisper that refuses
to let that take root.
Speaking free,
folding into your thoughts,
reminding you
of your worth.
This piece is me speaking to the one I care for, and to anyone who has ever let themselves be seen fully by another. There’s no illusion here—no tricks, no smoke, no mirrors. The “magic” I write about is the kind that happens when trust meets attention, when care meets desire, when devotion meets surrender. It’s messy, it’s quiet, it’s real. I wrote this to honor that kind of connection—the one that burns steady, that makes even the smallest moments feel sacred, and that reminds me why we give ourselves to the people we love.
Intimacy becomes its own kind of magic.
The Power You Give Me Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’m a magician, love—
sleight of hand in every touch,
danger in every whisper.
Not the kind that pulls rabbits from hats,
but the kind that pulls want
from the deepest parts of you
without even trying.
I touch you once—
and your breath forgets itself.
Twice—
and your pulse starts writing poetry
against your skin.
I speak a single word
and your knees remember
what surrender feels like.
My tongue is a wand,
a spellcaster,
a maker of quiet ruins—
and I use it
only on the deserving.
I can summon heat
with the drag of a fingertip,
pull desire from the air
like it’s silk waiting to be woven.
I draw circles on your skin
and watch them ignite,
slow, deliberate,
like I planned the fire
from the very beginning.
And when I say your name—
soft, low,
with that tone that hits you
right behind the ribs—
you’ll swear I enchanted you.
But it’s simpler than that.
No potions, no charms, no lies.
You react to me
because your body knows mine
before your mind catches up.
Because my magic isn’t tricks—
it’s instinct,
connection,
hunger braided with reverence.
And darling—
when I’m finished with you,
when you’re breathless and undone,
when the world goes quiet
except for the echo of my touch—
you’ll realize
I never cast spells at all.
I just showed you
the power you give me
when you let me close.
Because loving you—
that’s the real magic.
The kind that doesn’t spark
or shimmer,
but settles low and warm
right behind the heart,
glowing steady
like a lantern in a storm.
You don’t see it,
but every time you trust me,
every time you soften,
every time you let me
see the part of you
you hide from the world—
I feel something inside me
kneel.
Not out of worship,
but out of awe.
Out of the quiet truth
that your soul
is the most beautiful thing
I’ve ever been allowed to touch.
And if my hands
feel like sorcery,
if my voice
feels like a spell,
it’s only because
you turn even the smallest moment
into something sacred
just by being in it.
So yes—
I’ll whisper enchantments
against your skin,
trace constellations
on your pulse points,
pull storms and light and heat
from the spaces between us—
but that’s not power.
That’s devotion.
That’s choosing you
with every breath.
That’s giving you
the softest parts of me
and letting you hold them
like something holy.
And if that feels like magic—
then maybe it is.
But it’s yours.
It always has been.
Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in theLibrary of Ashes.
Heeey, you’re heeere! Haha—yes, yes, YES… you found it.
This is messy. This is wild. This is word soup with fangs and sparkles.
🟠 Rowan’s giggling. 🔴 B.D.’s growling. 🟣 Hex is lurking.
And me? I’m jumping up and down, waving my little knife, spilling ink everywhere, laughing like a sugar‑crazed tornado in a tutu. Maybe I’m plotting. Maybe I’m just playing.
Read it if you want. Or don’t. I don’t care. But I’ll be watching. Always watching.
Rite of Ink visualized: words as weapons, ink as magic, and chaos wrapped in gothic beauty.
Rite of Ink Poetry by Rowan Evans
🟠 (Rowan takes center stage.)
You say you write what you really live— but it reads like fantasy. I say I write a fantasy— but it reads like what I really live.
Nobody believes what you’re saying, dawg, because honestly, your honesty sounds like a fraud. You say, this is my life though— and nobody buys what you’re sellin’, bro.
I could write three poems about one conversation, say I made it all up, and still they see the life in it. You could write a whole poem about your life, and readers would still find lies in it.
You could put your wife’s name in every rhyme, and still nobody believes she exists. I turn my muse into an archetype, and nobody questions whether she lives.
Because my words are alive, and yours? Flat out lies. I write so well, I don’t even have to try— you write, and everybody asks… why?
I could hide the woman I love’s name in plain sight… like Are you even reading this? I’m schooling you, you flunky, and still you think you can fuck with me?
I live in my words, and they live back. Yours? Just echoes, gasping for breath.
Let me rewind that back… I said I could hide her name in plain sight. Are you even reading this? I’m schooling you, you flunky, and still you think you can fuck with me?
You think you’re on the same page? Don’t make me laugh—I’ll leave you shook. You’re not even in the same book. Don’t insult me. Don’t provoke me. Don’t test my rage.
I’ll end up sayin’— B.D. get ’em.
🔴 (B.D. steps from the shadows.)
Bones snap. Blood goes cold. As the tone shifts, I enter the fold. My knife hums a pleasant song— pleasant for me, because you don’t know what you did wrong.
You choke on smoke and sulfur. Blood curdles like spoiled milk. I do it for my own, homegrown culture, as my words cut through flesh like silk.
Your blood like ink will spill across the page. Cold steel my pen, my words? Rage.
And here comes Hex— she’s up next.
🟣 (Hex materializes from nowhere.)
Ashes to ashes, blood to blood, Eye of toad, and witch’s tongue. Tail of newt—the spell’s begun. You think you’re safe… so you don’t run.
Safe is an illusion. When you write? A delusion. When I write? A rite. An earworm. A brain intrusion.
I’ll twist your thoughts like silk spun— this isn’t personal, I’ll hex you for fun.
So mote it be
Step deeper into the shadows and discover the full breadth of my poetry in The Library of Ashes — an archive of ink-stained devotion, dark petals, and threshold poems that linger long after the last candle flickers.Visit The Library of Ashes →
Sonnet of Submission is a tender exploration of trust, surrender, and sacred intimacy. Written in late October 2024, this piece captures the quiet strength found in yielding and the beauty of finding refuge in love.
A lantern of love guiding the heart through shadows.
Sonnet of Submission Poetry by Rowan Evans (Written October 29th, 2024)
In twilight’s glow, where shadows softly play, I yield my heart, my mind, my very soul, To thee, whose touch can chase the night away, In your embrace, I find my truest whole.
With every whispered word, my doubts unwind, In tender moments, trust begins to bloom, Your love, a lantern, guiding me to find A sacred space, where darkness meets its doom.
I grant you all—my fears, my dreams, my grace, In yielding, I discover strength anew; For in this bond, I find my rightful place, With you, I’m anchored, safe in love so true.
So take my heart, my spirit, let us soar, In sweet submission, I am yours, evermore.
In the space between ruin and reverence, devotion becomes a sharp-edged hymn. This poem is a shrine to chaos, a confession in the language of fire and barbed wire. Read if you dare—fall willingly into the storm.
Surrender and devotion entwined in shadow and flame – ‘Barbed Wire Halo’ by Rowan Evans.
Barbed Wire Halo Poetry by Rowan Evans
They say there must be something wrong with me—
because I crave the bite, the sting.
Yeah, I love it when you’re mean.
Spit your acid-laced psalms,
let them blister on my skin like holy fire.
I’ll wear the burn like a blessing.
Pain tastes like proof
when your mouth carves silence into me.
The ache is real—
and real is what I’ve been dying to feel.
So dig your nails into this paper-thin faith,
etch your name down my back like scripture.
You call me unworthy,
but damn it, that just makes me want you more—
like hunger gnawing at the bones of devotion.
A moth to the flame,
I keep flying into your ruin
just to see if I can light the dark.
Your halo is barbed wire, rusted and holy,
glinting above the curve of your devil horns.
You speak in ash and absolutes,
and I still beg you to speak again.
I kneel where your shadow spills—
sacrament in the shape of surrender.
So tear me down.
Whisper sins into the hollow of my throat.
I’ll still kiss you like salvation
when all you offer is the storm.
Because even ruin can feel like worship
when it’s you I’m falling for.
The final chapter of the “Nocturnal” series — a requiem for the night and an ode to enduring devotion. “Whispers in Darkness” unites mortal and immortal in a love that no longer fears the dark. It’s a soft, eternal vow — a promise whispered where even time holds its breath.
“Love eternal, whispered into the dark.”
Whispers in Darkness Poetry by Rowan Evans (June 9th, 2024)
It’s just you and I, here again, My Gothic dream, my queen in the night. In a dance of fates, a nightfall serenade, A symphony of love, and loyalty.
You’re my lethal protector, My guardian on the prowl, The one with whom I feel safe And secure, with you a love so true.
The night is thick with the scent of jasmine, Its intoxicating aroma a promise of what is to come. In your embrace, I am lost and found, A willing captive to your nocturnal charm.
It’s just you and I here, in a gentle embrace, A dance of fates, a nightfall serenade, A symphony of love, and loyalty. When I met you, I was set free.
In the shadows, your whispers are my guide, Each word a note in our private symphony. Jasmine weaves its magic around us, Binding us closer, sealing our fate.
In our love, our worlds collide, We will face every challenge, side by side. And I don’t know where I’d be without you, But I know I can’t go back to living without you.
In your embrace, I found my place, My Gothic dream, nightfall queen, The one to whom— I give my whispers in the dark.
I. Nocturnal Waltz | A Dark Romance Poem of Desire & Danger A fleeting, intoxicating moment between a femme-fatale vampiress and her human lover, where shadows, desire, and danger intertwine in a nocturnal waltz of longing and seduction.
II. Nightfall Serenade | A Gothic Vampire Love Poem The second poem in the Nocturnal series — a dark, romantic serenade between a mortal woman and her vampiric lover. A haunting continuation of Nocturnal Waltz, where passion becomes devotion and the night itself listens.
III. Nyx’s Confession | A Gothic Vampire Confessional Poem In Nyx’s Confession, the vampiress speaks — her love, her guilt, her impossible humanity. A confession whispered in blood and jasmine.
The third piece in the “Nocturnal” series, “Nyx’s Confession” peels back the veil of myth and reveals the vampiress’s heart. Here, the immortal becomes vulnerable — she kills to protect, yet aches to be loved for her humanity. It’s a poem about devotion through darkness, and how even monsters long to be seen as more than their hunger.
“Even monsters bleed for love.”
Nyx’s Confession Poetry by Rowan Evans (June 9th, 2024)
Fangs sunk in, drained him dry, To protect you, the diamond of my eye. You saw my humanity, not the monster I thought I was, and I love you for that.
Fangs pierced his skin, led him to his end Just to keep you safe, even if it pushed you away. But you saw me for something more, Than the monster, I thought I was.
The way you look at me, It makes me feel so alive, Like my heart still beats inside, But it only beats for you.
The scent of jasmine lingered in the air, A silent witness to the bloodshed, Its sweet perfume mingling with the metallic tang of his life, A testament to my love, my sacrifice.
I leave before the morning light, And return to you every night. I don’t know what it is about you, Got me fighting my nature just to be with you.
In the moonlit shadows, I find solace, Your presence a balm to my tormented soul. With each nightfall, the jasmine blooms, Its fragrance a reminder of the humanity you see in me.
I. Nocturnal Waltz | A Dark Romance Poem of Desire & Danger A fleeting, intoxicating moment between a femme-fatale vampiress and her human lover, where shadows, desire, and danger intertwine in a nocturnal waltz of longing and seduction.
II. Nightfall Serenade | Gothic Vampire Love Poem by Rowan Evans The second poem in the Nocturnal series — a dark, romantic serenade between a mortal woman and her vampiric lover. A haunting continuation of Nocturnal Waltz, where passion becomes devotion and the night itself listens.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 