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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: dreams

  • Escape & Longing: Tropical Dreams and Distant Shores – Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Double-Feature Intro

    Sometimes the world feels too heavy to bear, and the soul begins to dream of places it has never touched. Two paths emerge—one of quiet surrender, the other of yearning flight. These pieces explore that journey: the weight of what we leave behind, and the promise of somewhere beyond the horizon.

    Figure standing on a tropical shore at sunset, gazing toward distant islands, representing longing and the desire to escape.
    Longing for distant shores, finding peace beyond what I’ve known.

    Escape Route
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I want to step off this soil,
    feel its weight fade from my bones,
    like a chain I never asked for,
    a history I never owned.

    I long for skies not heavy with judgment,
    for oceans that don’t pull me under,
    to breathe air not tainted with promises
    that leave the soul shattered,
    like glass beneath tired feet.

    I would trade the land of endless noise,
    the echoes of hollow dreams,
    for silence—
    for the quiet of somewhere far,
    where the world doesn’t scream
    but whispers,
    and I can finally exhale.

    Somewhere else,
    where home isn’t built on brokenness,
    where freedom isn’t borrowed
    but earned.

    Tropical Longing
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I wake up each day,
    mind focused on the journey ahead—
    I’m putting plans in motion,
    to cross oceans,
    to leave behind this land of plenty,
    where many have none.
    I long for the land
    of white sand beaches and palm trees,
    I long for a tropical sun.

    Life upon a different shore,
    it’s calling me.
    And I think about it longingly.
    Get me out of here,
    get me to where my heart feels at peace.
    Instead of here,
    where I feel like I’m pulling myself in two,
    stretched thin between what is and what could be—
    like waves crashing against jagged rocks,
    each one breaking off a piece of me.

    The Philippines—
    a dream painted in shades of emerald and gold,
    the promise of solace in the whisper of the sea.
    But here, the air is heavy,
    clouds hang low with burdens of the past,
    while I yearn for a sky unshackled,
    where the horizon stretches far beyond
    the limits of what I know.

    Palm trees sway like dancers,
    and the sun burns bright,
    calling me to walk barefoot,
    where my soul can feel the sand,
    and my heart can finally breathe.
    But for now,
    I’m tethered to this place,
    this world where the weight is felt
    with every step I take.

    Still, I hold onto the dream,
    the image of an island beyond the mist—
    where peace resides,
    and I can shed the pull of this dual life,
    and rest beneath the warmth of the tropical sky.

    Double-Feature Outro

    And so we leave, if only in words—for a moment, we escape the weight of the world. We walk toward distant shores, toward air untainted and skies unbound, carrying pieces of ourselves we thought were lost. Between the tethered and the free, we find the space to breathe, to dream, to simply be.

    Looking for more of my poetry? The Library of Ashes

  • In Tongues and Travels: A Celebration of Language and Culture by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    “I have always been captivated by the lives and languages of people far from my own. This piece is a reflection on curiosity, respect, and the love I carry for cultures I have yet to touch.”

    A dreamlike collage of Asian cityscapes with multilingual characters representing Mandarin, Cantonese, Tagalog, Korean, Japanese, and German.
    Listening to the world in every language, feeling the pulse of life in every culture. – Rowan Evans

    I have always been drawn to the world outside myself… to the rhythms of languages I do not speak, to streets I have never walked, to skies I have yet to stand beneath. There is a life in language, a heartbeat in culture, and I listen as closely as I can.

    Even when I cannot understand the words, I hear the cadence, the rise and fall, the hidden music that belongs to a place and its people. Mandarin or Cantonese, Tagalog or Korean, Japanese or German—they each carry a soul in their tones, a story in their syllables. I notice when the smallest detail shifts, when a rhythm is off, when a sound is not quite what it should be. Some call it obsession; I call it devotion.

    The written form sings to me as well. Korean curves in gentle arcs, Chinese strikes with sharp certainty, Japanese flows in graceful ribbons. To many, they appear alike, but I hear the difference, see the rhythm, sense the pulse of lives folded into every character, every stroke. Each line holds a story, a heartbeat, a culture speaking without sound.

    I am fascinated not by the exotic alone, but by the living pulse of life everywhere. In Japan, the careful balance of history and neon. In Seoul, the energy that hums beneath every crowded street. In Manila, the warmth and chaos intertwined, unashamed and alive. These are not places I have touched, yet I feel them as vividly as I feel the echo of my own heartbeat.

    I do not want to consume. I want to witness. I want to understand. I want to walk with reverence, to listen with attention, to respect the lives unfolding around me, and to see what is beautiful without taking it for my own. Language, culture, custom—these are windows into the souls of people, and I am endlessly curious.

    Even in dreams, I travel, carrying notebooks, pens, a hunger for connection. I meet people, learn their words, share their moments, and leave a piece of myself behind in the care with which I have observed.

    This is how I show love to the world I do not yet fully know. Through attention, through curiosity, through presence. And perhaps, one day, when my feet touch those streets, I will not only observe, but belong in some way, however fleeting.

    Until then, I will listen. I will watch. I will learn.

    Drifting Without Roots: A Poem on Cultural Identity and Longing
    A confessional poem exploring envy of cultural heritage, the ache of disconnection, and the search for belonging in a fractured identity.

  • Nocturnal Crossing – Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism by Rowan Evans | Dark Romantic Poetry

    Rowan Evans

    ✦ Author’s Note ✦

    There is a strange sanctity in sleep—the quiet surrender where worlds fold into each other, where hearts separated by oceans can meet in the hush of night. This piece is a liturgy for those encounters, the nightly pilgrimages to a shared dreamscape. In this realm, distance dissolves, and the pulse of longing becomes the rhythm of devotion. Let these words be a bridge between the waking world and the sanctuary of dreams.

    Shadowy figures reaching across a silver moonlit ocean – illustration for Nocturnal Crossing poem.
    Nocturnal Crossing – a neo-gothic exploration of love, longing, and dream-bound devotion by Rowan Evans.

    ✦ Invocation ✦

    Come, children of moonlight and tide,
    step softly into the hours where reality frays,
    where the air tastes of salt and shadow,
    and silver fingers of night brush your skin.
    Let the night cradle you,
    its soft hum and velvet rustle weaving paths across oceans,
    drawing us together beneath stars that shimmer like cold fire.
    Breathe with me the brine-wet air,
    feel the pull of another soul
    even when miles of water shimmer between us,
    and hear the lull of waves like whispered secrets.

    Nocturnal Crossing
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I slip past the clock, past the walls of day,
    where moonlight drips like ink over silvered bay,
    and salt tangs the air, heavy on my tongue.
    The ocean waits, a vast, cold divide,
    but nightly I sail where your shadows hide,
    and the hush hums softly like a ghostly song.

    In waking hours, the tide keeps you away,
    distance carved like a cathedral of gray.
    Yet sleep is a bridge, a haunted parade,
    where fog curls softly, damp and scented with brine,
    and darkness sways, a slow, breathing veil.

    Your voice drifts through the chambered night,
    a ghostly hymn, pale lanterns in flight.
    I reach for the echo of your trembling hands,
    tide-bound in life, yet together we stand,
    fingertips brushing the mist like feathers of shadow.

    The stars spin slow, like dancers in lace,
    tracing the curve of your dream-lit face.
    Every sigh a hymn, every blink a key,
    unlocking the hours where only you meet me,
    the night humming faintly under our tethered breaths.

    Our bodies unmade, yet memory sings,
    the hush of your breath, the tilt of your wings.
    Velvet tides pull us under, pull us near,
    currents of shadow whispering that you’re here,
    the brine of your absence sweet on my lips.

    Every night, I dive through the velvet seam,
    where shadows and saltwater merge in a dream.
    The moon is a lantern, the sky a cathedral,
    and I cross the waves to your phantom, ethereal,
    hearing the distant crackle of star-fire above.

    The stars trace your face like ink on my skin,
    every sigh a prayer, every blink a sin.
    And when I awake, the ocean roars,
    its briny scent heavy in the morning air,
    but in dreams, I hold you on moonlit shores.

    I wait for the night with fevered eyes,
    for the hush of your laughter, the drift of skies,
    the faint taste of salt and shadow on my tongue.
    Though oceans are cruel and daylight steals,
    in dreams, I am yours, and the dark reveals.

    ✦ Benediction ✦

    May your dreams carry you gently across the seas,
    where longing dissolves into the hush of night,
    and the cool press of moonlight guides your steps.
    May the scent of salt and the brush of shadow
    lead you to the soul you seek,
    and when the sun awakens the world,
    may you rest in the quiet warmth of remembered touch,
    the hush of tides still echoing in your chest,
    knowing that in the sacred hours
    you are never truly apart,
    and the pulse of devotion lingers on your skin.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    If the hush of night lingers with you, if the pulse of devotion and quiet longing still hums in your chest, wander further into these chambers of ink and flame:

    To Be Near Your Flame | Rowan Evans
    A haunting meditation on love, longing, and the quiet courage of staying close to the one who sets your heart ablaze. Includes a benediction for connection and devotion.

    Penguin Pebbling | Roo the Poet
    A delicate, heartwarming poem celebrating the small treasures of love and the quiet moments that linger in our hearts.

    Litany of Shelter | Rowan Evans
    A quiet vow in four lines: I may not stop the rain, but I can be your shelter.

    13 Riddles for the Starborn Child | Roo the Poet
    These 13 moonlit riddles are not meant to be solved, but to gently unravel you. Roo the Poet—the child of my mythos—wanders barefoot through dreams, gathering starlight and scattering questions like wildflower seeds.

    Step lightly. Let the words fold around you. Let them hold you as the night holds us all.

  • For a Moment, I Was Home

    Rowan Evans
    Nakauwi na ako.

    I was staying with the guy who offered me a place—a warm, open home in the Philippines. The morning was slow, soft. We just talked and laughed, getting to know each other better as the sun filtered through the window. I felt… weightless. For the first time in so long, my body didn’t ache. I didn’t need to hide inside my own skin.   
       
    Later that day, I met up with her at the mall. The woman that had inspired every single love poem I had written for the last year.   
       
    She was wearing a sundress, soft purple with white stripes. It matched her Nikes—white with hints of violet, like twilight folded into fabric. Her voice sounded like heaven, and her giggle—God, her giggle—made the whole world stop. The way she caught me looking at her, like she knew, and didn’t mind… like she liked it. The world faded every time she laughed. It was just us. No noise, no pain, no fear. Just us.   
       
    We wandered the shops. She lit up when we passed a shoe display. I noticed the way her eyes lingered, how her fingers brushed the pair she liked without touching the price tag. She didn’t need to ask. I bought them for her without hesitation. Not to impress her—but because I wanted to. Because she deserved to have things that made her smile like that.   
       
    Before the dream ended, I said something in Tagalog. I don’t remember the words, not fully. But I know what they meant:   
       
    “I’m home.”   
       
    And I was. For that brief, beautiful moment—I was whole. I wasn’t in pain. I wasn’t fighting my own thoughts. I wasn’t surviving. I was living.   
       
    I woke up with tears on my cheeks.   
       
    The sunlight in my real room was harsher—unfiltered, impatient. My knees screamed again. My back ached like it always does. The weight came rushing back, like gravity remembered me.   
       
    But even through the pain,   
    even through the disappointment of being pulled from that softness—   
    I smiled.   
       
    Because for a little while,   
    I knew what it was to live without hurting.   
    To breathe without breaking.   
    To love without fear.   
       
    And even if it was only a dream,   
    it’s mine now.   
    A secret I tuck into the folds of my ribs.   
    A memory from a place that maybe isn’t real,   
    but felt more real than anything else ever has.   
       
    And that… that’s enough to keep going.   
       
    At least for today.   
    At least for now.