Pyres of the Patriarchy is a ritual of words, fire, and defiance. It honors those who resisted, those who were silenced, and those who still carry the courage of rebellion in their veins. Salem’s shadows and flickering flames become a lens to see the power, rage, and liberation in claiming what the world tried to take away. This poem is both homage and invocation—a call to rise, to burn away chains, and to celebrate the sacred fire that refuses to be tamed.
— Rowan Evans
Not for vengeance — for devotion.
Pyres of the Patriarchy Poetry by Rowan Evans
In Salem’s darkened heart, the night exhales,
and shadows twist like ink in candlelight.
Whispers coil around bones,
around lungs, around my pulse—
curses pressed to lips
that tremble with memory and rage.
The witches rise.
Not silent. Not broken.
Their eyes burn with histories
too long ignored.
Their hands trace the edges of power
that was stolen,
that was denied,
that we take back
with every heartbeat, every breath.
The pyres flare,
and the chains writhe in their heat.
Patriarchy bends, fractures, collapses,
its ash swirling into moonlight,
into the smoke of everything they told us
we could never be.
No more the quiet screams
that haunted hallways
we were told to shrink inside.
No more the weight of “never enough.”
We kneel in fire.
We rise in flame.
We are the storm they feared
and the hymn they could not silence.
From shackled wrists,
from charred stakes,
from every whispered lie,
we rise.
We rise,
and the night bends with us,
carries our laughter
through every darkened room,
through every shadow left unclaimed.
I feel it in my chest—
their power in me,
their defiance in my hands.
The fortress of the old world trembles,
crumbles,
and we dance
in the embers of what they called impossible.
A new dawn blooms in Salem’s bones.
The pyres burn bright,
not for vengeance,
but for devotion:
to our shadows,
to our fire,
to the witches we always were
and always will be.
This poem is a reflection on devotion, longing, and the quiet strength of love that stretches across distance. Using the imagery of a sunflower—rooted yet reaching, bending yet unbroken—I explore the way our hearts orient themselves toward those who bring light into our lives. It’s a meditation on hope, patience, and the silent pull of someone who becomes our constant, our compass, and our sunlight.
Sunflower Eyes — rooted in hope, reaching for the light, a meditation on love and devotion.
Sunflower Eyes Poetry by Rowan Evans
Like a sunflower,
always searching for golden rays.
My eyes move, always,
in search of your face.
Even in the quiet moments,
when petals fold in sleep,
my gaze drifts across the distance,
finding you in the small sparks
that linger at the edges of the world.
My roots sink deep,
anchored in the soil of memory and hope,
but my head, my heart,
will always sway toward you,
bending and bowing, yet never breaking.
I yearn for the warmth
that only your presence gives,
each glance a sunbeam
piercing through the shadowed field
where I sometimes forget my own strength.
Seasons shift and skies fade,
but I follow the orbit of your light,
spinning in silent devotion,
even when the sun hides behind clouds.
I bloom in the hope of your eyes,
and in the quiet ache of waiting,
I stretch ever upward,
a golden blaze against the sky—
your face, my sunlight,
my constant, my compass,
my forever.
Recently, I’ve seen a lot of people online talking about love—what it is, what it should be and what it feels like. A lot of it makes it sound like love should be a fairytale, or something effortless. I wanted to share my own take: what love really is, from my perspective. This is my manifesto.
Love is not effortless—it is choice, presence, and devotion, alive in everyday moments.
Love Is Choice: A Manifesto Manifesto by Rowan Evans
Love is not a fairytale. It is not magic, destiny, or some effortless, perfect emotion that simply exists. Love is work. Love is patience. Love is showing up, again and again, even when it is hard, even when it is mundane, even when it is inconvenient.
Love is choice. It is the decision to walk beside someone, to carry their weight with them—not instead of them, but alongside them. It is the conscious commitment to witness, honor, and respond to who they are, fully, unedited, and without trying to fix what isn’t broken.
Love is active. It is listening when words are hard to find. It is staying present when life shakes everything apart. It is forgiving, learning, compromising, and holding space without judgment.
Love is honest. It does not gloss over pain or disappointment. It does not pretend every moment is blissful or effortless. It sees the darkness, acknowledges it, and chooses to stay. It sees the light, celebrates it, and nurtures it.
Love is courageous. It is daring to be vulnerable, to give your heart fully without demanding repayment. It is resisting the temptation to escape when the weight is heavy, the storm is loud, or the moment is uncomfortable. It is understanding that enduring love is not measured by feeling, but by action.
Love is sacred. It is not about ownership, perfection, or control. It is about respect, devotion, and the sacred trust that comes from seeing someone in their entirety and still choosing them.
Love is worth the ache. The effort is not a burden—it is proof of devotion. The work is not punishment—it is a labor of care. The challenges are not failures—they are the evidence that love is real.
Love is choice. Love is effort. Love is presence. Love is not a fairytale—but it is extraordinary, transformative, and alive in the everyday, ordinary moments that are shared with intention.
Sanctum of Sin was originally written on May 16th, 2025, and polished on December 16th, 2025. This piece is part of my ongoing exploration of Neo‑Gothic Confessional Romanticism—where intimacy, devotion, shadow, and sacred rebellion collide. It is not about ownership, but about chosen connection; not about religion, but about ritual; not about sin, but about the holiness we find in places the world tells us to hide.
Sanctum of Sin visualized: a shadowed embrace amidst candlelight, capturing the sacred intimacy and ritualistic devotion of Rowan Evans’ Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.
Sanctum of Sin Poetry by Rowan Evans
I never wanted heaven.
I wanted her.
Eyes like unholy sacraments,
fingertips dipped in blood and honey,
a laugh that makes holy water boil,
and my knees hit the floor
with gratitude.
She is my altar and my undoing,
my blasphemy made flesh.
Let the angels weep—
I never asked for salvation.
Only the weight of her thighs
and the way her wickedness
matches mine in every grin-shaped curse.
We don’t light candles.
We set fires.
We hex the night with pleasure
and whisper dirty prayers
until the moon blushes
and turns her face away.
I keep a vial of her voice
around my neck,
a charm against the dull ache
of anyone else’s touch.
And when she says she’s tired—
oh darling,
we’ll make exhaustion holy.
I’ll drain the stars
just to pour her a bath in darkness.
I’ll mark her spine with sigils
only I know how to read.
Every spell begins with her name,
every climax a ritual,
every kiss a blood oath
demanding loyalty
even in our ruin.
Let them call us monsters.
We’ll show them how gods are made—
not in temples,
but in tangled sheets
and shared laughter
over the graves of those who hurt us.
No past can dim the light we forge.
Every scar, every memory,
becomes gold in the fire of our nights.
We rise, tender in our ruin,
untouchable, untamed, unbroken.
Because she is mine now—
not owned, but chosen.
Not tamed, but trusted.
And I am hers.
Ruthlessly.
Completely.
Beautifully doomed.
So let the world burn.
We’ll dance in the embers.
We’ll write new psalms in spit and sweat.
We’ll worship only each other—
in shadow,
in sin,
in sanctum.
This piece is a reflection on persistence, inspiration, and the threads that connect my work over the past year. Each italicized title is a window into the poems that shaped this journey—moments of love, desire, trauma, healing, and devotion.
At its heart, this is about process as much as outcome: the daily practice of writing, the sparks of muse, and the quiet work done in the late hours when the world is still. It’s also a tribute to those who witness these words—across screens, pages, and hearts—you are part of this ongoing journey too.
Consider this piece a bridge: between poems, between moments, between the past and the work yet to come.
Late nights, ink-stained fingers, and the quiet companionship of words—where every poem begins.
131 Days (A Journey Through Words, Fire, and Devotion) Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’ve been so focused— over-focused, some say. One hundred thirty-one days and counting.
I’ve written with range: love, desire, mental health, trauma, recovery. There’s more, of course, but that’s the core.
My muse, my inspiration is— A-Woman. The vision of beauty, an angel on earth— a Filipina, with fire in her eyes. When the world tries to put her fire out, that is when I Cry to the Quiet. And why I Am offering myself to her, fully. Freely. For you see, she— is Perfectly Imperfect, which means… she is perfect for me.
Late nights, ink-stained fingers, the quiet my closest companion. For those who witness, across pages and screens, you carry a piece of this journey too. And still, I write on.
If you enjoyed this piece and want to check out more of my work, you can click one of the many links scattered throughout the poem itself. They take you to my highest viewed pieces of the year. I am not saying they are my best pieces, just the ones that got the most views. Anyway, you can find more of my work here:[The Library of Ashes]
These poems were originally written last December, (polished recently) inspired by the quiet magic, longing, and devotion that the season brings. They are not about presents, decorations, or snow—but about the ways we hold someone in our heart, wish for their happiness, and cherish the moments that make life feel alive.
Each piece is a reflection of care, yearning, and the small miracles we find in connection.
— Rowan Evans
A quiet moment of winter devotion, captured in ink and candlelight.
Christmas Devotion: Four Winter Love Poems by Rowan Evans
A wish written in devotion, hoping for someone else’s joy.
Dear Santa Poetry by Rowan Evans
Dear Santa,
I ask for little this year—
just her happiness, wrapped in light,
a genuine smile to chase away the shadows
that cloud her mornings.
I wish for her heart to be at ease,
for the weight to lift,
like snowflakes melting in spring’s first breath,
for every breath she takes
to feel lighter,
every moment she lives
to be worth more than gold.
I don’t need anything for myself—
nothing for me,
no ribbons or bows,
just give her everything she could ever dream,
every joy,
every wish fulfilled
with the grace of starlight.
For she is my world,
though she may never know
the depths of how much she means—
I’ll be there,
steadfast and true,
until the end,
if she’ll have me.
And maybe, just maybe,
leave me beneath her tree,
so I might be the reason for her smile this season—
the warmth beneath her winter,
the spark that lights her soul.
Yours, in silent devotion,
Rowan
Another letter, another wish — this time for love to be received.
Another Letter to Santa Poetry by Rowan Evans
Dear Santa,
I wrote with care, not for toys or treasures rare, but for her smile, so warm and bright, to light her world on Christmas night.
I asked for joy to fill her days, for peace to guide her gentle ways. For every wish she dares to dream, to come alive like a starlit gleam.
She deserves the very best, a love that soars, a heart at rest. So I penned my list with her in mind, hoping your magic would be kind.
And then, with courage, I did plea, “Santa, could you leave me under her tree? Wrap me in ribbons, tied with care, so I could be the gift waiting there.”
For all I want this Christmas Eve, is to hold her close, to make her believe, that love is a gift, steady and true, and all I wish for… is to give it to her.
The moment the season’s magic returns through love.
Christmas Magic Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’m searching for the magic, the season’s glow, the joy, the wonder I used to know. Once, Christmas sparkled, a brilliant light, but now it feels distant, out of sight.
I long for that spirit, for warmth and cheer, to feel the magic, to know it’s near. But it slips through my fingers, each passing year, and I can’t help but wonder, why it disappears.
The closest I’ve come, the moment so true, was when I met you, and it all felt new. Suddenly, it was easy, my smile found its place, joy rushed in, lighting up my face.
In your presence, I felt the shift, the weight of the world began to lift. You gave me back that light I’d lost, without even knowing the cost.
You opened my eyes, made me see, that the magic I longed for was inside of me. It wasn’t the holidays, or the gifts we give— it was you, who set me free.
Where winter breath meets winter magic — a kiss waiting to happen.
Under the Mistletoe Poetry by Rowan Evans
Meet me there, beneath the green and white, where winter whispers and hearts ignite. A sprig of magic hung above, a symbol of fate, a kiss of love.
Let our worlds entwine, two threads in a weave, a story unfolding on this frosted eve. I’ll become yours, and you’ll become mine, our souls aligning, frozen in time.
The crowd fades away, a blur of the cold, it’s only us now, a tale to be told. Eyes locked in silence, a spark starts to grow, a fire kindled under the mistletoe.
Take my hands, let your fingers trace, the contours of love etched on my face. Kiss me slow, with the world standing still, a moment suspended, a wish fulfilled.
No one else matters, they’re shadows at best, for here, with you, my heart finds its rest. So meet me there, where our hearts will know, the magic that lives under the mistletoe.
This piece is a quiet confession—half shadow, half devotion. In In Her Light, I explore what it means to exist in the spaces someone else illuminates, to be tethered to their glow without asking for it, to guard what they give freely. Sometimes devotion is loud, sometimes it’s invisible; this is the latter, folded into every heartbeat and breath.
— B.D. Nightshade
“Existing in her light, a shadow of devotion and quiet confession.”
In Her Light Poetry by B.D. Nightshade
She’s the light,
I’m the shadow she casts.
I’ve always known my place—
not in the center,
not demanding attention,
just here, steady, waiting.
Every laugh she lets loose
echoes against the walls of me.
Every glance she doesn’t notice
leaves fingerprints on my chest.
I’m the quiet behind her flare,
the pulse she doesn’t feel,
but the one that steadies her steps
when the world threatens to wobble.
She doesn’t need me to shine—
but I need her light.
And if the only way to keep it safe
is to linger unseen,
then unseen I remain.
I memorize the way she breathes,
how her shadow bends against the floor,
the subtle tremble in her hands
when she’s trying not to break.
I’ve built invisible walls around her glow,
stone by stone, heartbeat by heartbeat,
so no one steals what she gives freely,
so no one dims what she can’t contain.
And still, I ache.
I ache to be more than a sentinel,
to be the warmth that touches her skin,
to be seen by her, truly.
But for now, I exist in the quiet,
folded into corners she never notices,
a whisper of devotion
she feels only when danger passes,
when chaos recedes,
when the world bows down
and leaves her whole.
I am her shadow,
but even shadows have edges.
I will guard her light,
even from myself.
Every Word I Mean is one of the most vulnerable things I’ve written in a while—not because it hides behind metaphor, but because it refuses to. I’m used to expressing the deepest truths in symbols, shadows, and lyrical disguises. But this time, I wanted to speak plainly. To show what it looks like when I mean something so much that I don’t need to dress it in poetry.
Every line in this piece is something I’ve said in real life—honestly, openly, without hesitation. These aren’t metaphors or masks; they’re just my truth. And putting that truth into ink feels almost more intimate than any confession I’ve written before.
This is me without armor. Just words I meant, and still mean.
— Rowan Evans
A quiet moment of truth poured into ink — every word written with intention.
Every Word I Mean Poetry by Rowan Evans
If I speak it,
in words or ink,
then know I mean it.
Because I don’t say things
just to say them—
I only say them
when I feel them.
Like—
I love
your smile,
your laugh,
your nose.
(It’s cute, really.)
I think you’re beautiful,
and I’m not going anywhere.
I’m never going to leave.
I want to build a real foundation.
Show you the love and respect
you deserve.
With me,
I always want you
to feel safe and heard.
These are all things I’ve said—
not hidden in poems,
not wrapped in metaphors.
I said them plainly,
straightforward,
unshaken.
And maybe that’s why
I write it now—
not to hide the truth,
but to honor it.
To show you that
even my simplest words
carry weight,
carry intention,
carry you.
Because when I say anything—
whether in ink
or breath—
it’s because I feel it:
every syllable,
every moment,
every piece of you
that I’ve come to love.
Suggested Reads
[Over and Over] A vulnerable, deeply honest poem about choosing someone again and again—despite distance, fear, and the chaos between two very different worlds. Over and Over captures that wild gravity between two people who weren’t meant to collide… yet somehow did.
[The Power You Give Me] A poem about sacred intimacy, quiet devotion, and the kind of connection that feels like sorcery without spells. The Power You Give Me explores how trust, desire, and vulnerability turn touch into magic—and why real power is held by the person who lets you close.
[Carved From Intention] A poem about the quiet, deliberate way I love—and the frustration of being misunderstood. Not all affection is loud or scattered; some of us give ourselves slowly, carefully, and only with intention.
Looking for even more poetry? You can explore everything inThe Library of Ashes.
This poem sits at the intersection of confession and cosmic metaphor—the place where most of my writing lives. Over and Over explores the terrifying, beautiful truth of wanting someone in a way that feels bigger than logic or circumstance. It blends the casual language of everyday life with the vastness of stars and gravity, because that’s how love feels to me: ordinary and impossible at the same time.
This piece is part of my ongoing work in Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism, a genre rooted in emotional honesty, soft ruin, and the belief that choosing someone—even when it scares you—is a quiet act of rebellion.
— Rowan Evans
Two stars in the same orbit — even when they were never meant to meet.
Over and Over Poetry by Rowan Evans
It’s wild to me,
how I’ve fallen for you.
‘Cause you and I,
we come from
two different worlds,
collide, once upon a time—
enemies, opposite sides.
Now I’m just tryin’,
to get on the same team.
I want to be your partner.
Ride or die, I watch your back
and you got mine.
And it scares me,
how much I want this.
How much I want you—
not the pretty and polished,
but the vulnerable and true.
Still it terrifies me,
everything I’m willing to do,
to give up, just to be close to you.
Everything I know,
I’d say, “adios”,
“Sayanora”, I’m Danny Phantom,
I’m going ghost.
And maybe we weren’t built for this,
but here we are—
you and I,
two distant stars.
But somehow,
we ended up
in each other’s orbit.
Two stars
spiraling towards,
mutual destruction.
Or something.
I don’t know,
I’m not a scientist.
I just know,
that whatever this is,
whatever we are…
whether that is friends,
or something more…
I’d choose this,
over and over,
again and again.
I would choose this—
because having you in my life,
is a million times better
than not having you at all.
Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in theLibrary of Ashes.
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.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 