Dreamlike writing – Poetry by Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

I didn’t invent the conversation in this poem.

That’s what makes this piece feel different to me.

Usually when I write about dreams, I’m translating emotions into imagery after the fact—trying to capture the atmosphere more than the exact details. But this time, I woke up and realized I could still remember almost everything I said.

Not perfectly. Dreams never survive intact.

But the emotional core of it stayed with me long after I woke up.

The strange thing about recurring dreams is how they stop feeling fictional after a while.

The streets become familiar. The air feels recognizable. The people inside them start feeling emotionally real in a way that’s difficult to explain to someone else without sounding a little unhinged.

And that’s part of what this piece explores.

The disconnect between physical reality and emotional reality.

I know I’ve never walked through Manila in waking life. I know I’ve never stood face to face with her like that. But emotionally?

Some part of me feels like I already have.

That’s the part that’s difficult to articulate.

Especially because the dream wasn’t dramatic. There was no cinematic confession in the rain. No grand climax.

It was quiet. Warm. Awkward. Honest.

And maybe that’s why it affected me so much.

Because the dream version of me said the things the waking version still struggles to say out loud.

Not in metaphors. Not hidden inside symbolism.

Just plainly.

And then, right before I heard the answer—

I woke up.

— Rowan Evans

A solitary figure stands on a rain-soaked city street at night beneath warm lights in a dreamlike urban atmosphere. — *Some places live in the heart long before the body ever arrives there.*

The Streets I Walk When I Sleep
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I had a dream last night—

it’s a line, I’ve written
a thousand times—

and I’ll write it
a thousand times more.

Because dreams
don’t feel like things
that happened
in my sleep.

They feel like memories.

There are times
I have to remind myself—

I’ve never been to Tokyo,
I’ve never walked the streets
of Manila or Seoul.

I can’t explain it,
definitely can’t name it—
why these connections
feel so strong.

Yet, they are the streets
I walk when I sleep
and that’s still the same,
it’s never changed—

since I was fourteen.

I’ve just been to
Manila more lately.

I had a dream last night…

It was her and I,
standing eye to eye—
and I said everything
I’ve been too scared to say.

“I love you,”
my voice came out
softer than expected.

“I always knew,”
I continued.

“Since the moment
something in me changed,
and you didn’t demand it.
It just happened.”

I took her hands
in mine.

Sun was gone,
but you could still feel the heat—
but the real killer?

The way the humidity clung,
making this moment
sticky sweet.

“I’ve known
since the moment I met you
you were special.”
I said, my voice near a whisper.

I felt the way you tensed up.
You’re not used to this either.

“It took me six days
to realize things had changed.
I wrote that first poem,
and in my chest, I knew—

I found home.”

I felt the tremor in your breath,
head tilting back
and we made eye contact.

Your mouth opened,
you were about to speak—

then I woke up.

Journey in the Hexverse…

[Memories From a Life Yet to Come]
Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory. “Memories From a Life Yet to Come” is a reflective free verse poem about longing, displacement, emotional alignment, and the strange comfort of recognizing yourself more clearly in dreams than 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]

Author’s Note

Roo the Poet is the child of my mythos—the barefoot wanderer of dreamscapes, the star-gatherer, the one who hums lullabies to the moon. Through Roo, I allow myself to write softer, lighter, and more whimsical pieces, to let the shadows lift just enough for starlight to spill in.

If my other works speak in the voices of saints, witches, and ghosts, Roo is the child who runs between them—collecting stories in pockets, scattering questions like wildflower seeds. Roo writes not to answer, but to wonder. These 13 Riddles are not puzzles to solve, but spells to unravel you gently, reminding you of the magic you never truly lost.

A barefoot child stands on a path of silver stardust, holding a jar of glowing stars under a deep indigo night sky. — *Roo the Poet—the child of my mythos—wanders the silver paths of wonder, carrying questions, and starlight in equal measure.*

Invocation

Come closer, stardust child—
bare feet on silver paths, pockets full of found things.
We gather where the sky bends low to listen,
where moonlight leans in to eavesdrop.
Bring your questions, your quiet, your untamed dreams.
Tonight, we trade riddles instead of answers,
and let wonder do the rest.

13 Riddles for the Starborn Child
Poetry by Roo the Poet

Goddess of Magic & Whimsy
Witch of Wonder
The Soul, The Child

These riddles are soft spells, moonlit questions for the wild-hearted. They aren’t meant to be solved. They’re meant to unravel you gently.

A tiny flower blooming in the palm of a sleeping hand, glowing faintly in dreamlight, watercolor style. — *Some seeds only bloom when the world isn’t watching.*

Where do dreams go
when we wake up crying—
and who waters the flowers
we only plant in sleep?

A still lake under a dark sky, with one lone bright star glowing above, watercolor style. — *Some stars shine just for the ones who wait in silence.*

If a heart breaks in silence,
but the stars feel it—
is it really alone?

A girl made of flame softly blowing on a dandelion, its seeds drifting away unharmed, watercolor style. — *Even fire can make a wish without burning it.*

III

Can a girl be made of fire
and still blow wishes into dandelions
without burning them?

A laugh frozen in glass with fine cracks glowing from within, watercolor style. — *Sometimes joy hides its hurt in the smallest fractures.*

What do you call a laugh
that hides a scream
in the spaces between its syllables?

Two shadows holding hands, their faces blurred like fading memories, watercolor style. — *We can forget the faces, but not the touch.*

If I give you my name,
but forget it tomorrow—
does that mean we were ever strangers?

A silver needle stitching a heart-shaped constellation with glitter thread, watercolor style. — *Some souls are mended with starlight and sorrow.*

How many poems does it take
to stitch a soul back together
with thread made of glitter and grief?

A shadow with softly glowing eyes humming beside a child’s bed, watercolor style. — *Not all lullabies come from the light.*

VII

If your shadow starts to hum lullabies,
should you sing along—
or run?

A sword hidden beneath a pillow of white feathers, watercolor style. — *Even the gentlest hearts sleep armed.*

VIII

Why do all the softest people
sleep with swords under their pillows?

The moon carving letters into beams of light, watercolor style. — *If the moon wrote your name, would you dare to read it?*

If the moon carved your name into light,
would you recognize it—
or look away?

Two cupped hands cradling a whispered word like smoke, watercolor style. — *Every secret is a spell if you breathe it softly enough.*

What’s the difference between
a secret and a spell
if both are whispered beneath your breath?

A mirror streaked with tears while the person reflected smiles, watercolor style. — *Sometimes the reflection feels it first.*

If your reflection starts to cry
before you do—
who is comforting whom?

A child’s hand reaching toward a monster’s clawed hand, watercolor style. — *Even monsters remember being held.*

XII

Do monsters know
they were children once?
Do we?

A wooden box spilling light, feathers, and broken toys, watercolor style. — *Magic never truly disappears—it just hides in the cracks.*

XII

And if you find your magic again,
buried deep in a box of broken things—
will you call it yours,
or will you pretend you never lost it?

Benediction

Go now, with your shadow softened by candlelight,
with your pockets still jingling with small, strange truths.
May you find your magic in the corners of ordinary days,
and hold it without asking it to explain itself.
The stars have written your name in secret places—
when you find them,
smile.

If you enjoyed this piece, you can find more of my work in The Library of Ashes. I am sure that you will find more that you will enjoy.

Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Dreamlike writing

The Streets I Walk When I Sleep | A Poem About Dreams, Love, and Emotional Longing

13 Riddles for the Starborn Child — Roo the Poet’s Whimsical Wonder-Spells