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.
Sometimes, the quiet isn’t empty. Sometimes, it carries you, like a pulse behind the walls. Here, in the hush, I watch. Here, in the stillness, I breathe. Here, I am seen, even when no else is.
— Rᵒᵒ ᵗʰᵉ Pᵒᵉᵗ
“Surrounded in silence, both ghost and witness.” – Rᵒᵒ ᵗʰᵉ Pᵒᵉᵗ
Between Walls and Whispers (Ghost and Witness) Pᵒᵉᵗʳʸ bʸ Rᵒᵒ ᵗʰᵉ Pᵒᵉᵗ
Sometimes, I find myself surrounded in silence— not absence, but a quiet hum behind the walls. The room feels full, but nobody’s really there, and I am both ghost and witness—
drifting, endless, caught in this forced flow of normalcy.
A weirdo, misfit, outcast— purposeful outsider, rejector of the machine.
I don’t want to be another cog. Sometimes, I long for silence— not the absence, but that gentle presence, a pulse softer than the endless hum.
And in that silence, I breathe. I am seen, I am held, not by voices or eyes, but by the quiet that understands what the hum cannot touch.
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.
Fragile Pulse came from watching the world move on autopilot—how easily people slip into routines, expectations, and identities that aren’t truly their own. It’s a poem about alienation, yes, but also about the quiet, stubborn spark that still lives beneath all that machinery.
This piece is my reminder that even in places that feel lifeless or mechanical, there are moments of real humanity—small flickers of authenticity that reach back when we reach out. It’s about connection in a world that often forgets how to feel, and about what it means to notice the spark in someone who thought theirs had gone out.
A fragile pulse is still a pulse. And sometimes, that’s enough to change everything.
A fragile spark in a mechanical world — the pulse that refuses to fade.
Fragile Pulse Poetry by Rowan Evans
Oh, you’re here?
Do you hear that?
Listen—
the hum of motors,
the whir of gears.
You see a land of people;
I see a land of robots—
not thinking,
only following programs.
They walk past you,
faces blank,
eyes fixed,
hands moving in repetition,
hearts forgotten in the chest,
souls traded for schedules.
And I watch—
not with hope,
not with judgment,
but with quiet fascination
at how easily the mind bends
when freedom is a stranger.
Do you hear it too?
The faint pulse beneath the circuits,
the tiny spark of something
that refuses to be programmed.
It’s fragile—
like a candle in a storm,
but it exists.
I can feel it,
even if the rest cannot.
I reach out—
not with force,
not with commands,
but with a touch gentle enough
to tremble against wires and bone.
Some notice;
some do not,
but the ones who do
flicker for a moment—
a shadow of thought
breaking through the rhythm
of their programming.
And in that flicker,
I see the impossible:
a memory, a desire,
a pulse that answers mine.
A whisper shared
between what is alive
and what has almost forgotten how.
Maybe it’s nothing,
just a flicker in the dark,
but even a single spark
can set a world alight.
I hold it close—
this fragile pulse—
and for a heartbeat,
the land of robots
becomes a land of us.
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 poem was written in a moment of clarity — the kind where love, identity, and self-worth collide in a single breath. It’s not about perfection, but presence. Not about winning someone, but showing what it means to love with depth, honesty, and devotion. I wrote this piece as a reminder that being seen — truly seen — is one of the rarest gifts we can offer or receive.
A neo-gothic portrait echoing the queer devotion and identity-centered vulnerability of “The Best to Ever Love You.”
The Best to Ever Love You Poetry by Rowan Evans (Written April 29th, 2025)
I won’t promise perfection.
Perfection is a lie sold in glossy pages and curated silence.
I will promise presence—
a kind that stays
when the light goes out,
when the weight is too heavy to lift alone.
I’ll be there with my back against the world
and my heart wide open,
offering everything I am,
even the parts I’m still healing.
I was not born into a name that fit.
I was not handed a life where my reflection
spoke kindly to me.
I had to fight for every inch of authenticity—
for this skin, this voice,
this truth I now wear with defiant grace.
So believe me when I say:
I see you in a way most people never could.
Because I, too,
have been misjudged
by eyes that didn’t know how to look deeper.
But then—there was you.
You, with your fierce softness.
You, who never tried to fix me,
because you never thought I was broken.
You just existed,
and the noise in my chest went quiet.
Everything else faded.
The world shrank to the sound of your laugh
and the way your eyes carry whole lifetimes
in every glance.
You told me about him—
the one who couldn’t see you.
Who turned your love into labor
and your light into shadow.
Who made you feel
like asking to be loved fully
was some unforgivable burden.
But he was the broken one.
A coward dressed in borrowed confidence.
A man so small,
he couldn’t handle the vastness of you.
He called you too much,
but I see it for what it is—
you are limitless.
And if he couldn’t love you,
it’s only because he mistook your strength for trouble,
your silence for surrender.
He didn’t deserve you
on your worst days,
let alone your best.
He was never a man—
just a placeholder.
A whisper of what love could be
if love lacked depth,
vision,
spine.
And me?
I never wanted to be a man.
But somehow,
I can still out-man him with my eyes closed.
Isn’t that funny?
To be non-binary, trans-femme,
and still possess more loyalty,
more protection,
more honest devotion
than someone raised with every societal advantage.
I’d be embarrassed if I were him—
to be eclipsed by someone
who doesn’t even want his title,
but can carry its responsibilities
better than he ever tried to.
And yet,
I don’t want you to choose me
just because I’m better than a ghost.
I want you to see me—
not as a compromise,
not as a curiosity,
but as the constellation
your soul already recognizes.
You once joked
you “should’ve been a lesbian.”
And I smiled,
but inside I held my breath
because I am sapphic,
and for once,
I felt like maybe—just maybe—
the stars weren’t mocking me.
You said you were open-minded.
That you weren’t sure.
That maybe there was something here,
even if you couldn’t name it.
And damn it,
I held onto that like prayer.
Not because I expect anything,
but because hope has always been louder in me
than doubt.
Maybe you don’t see me that way.
Maybe you never will.
But you should know—
I could love you better
than every ex who left bruises
instead of memories.
I could hold you safer
than all the hands that ever failed to catch you.
I could be
not just the best person to ever love you—
but the first to truly see you
and not flinch.
So let them doubt.
Let the world misgender me.
Let him think he “won”
because he had you first.
I know the truth.
You are worth becoming.
And I have become
a thousand versions of myself
just to be ready
if ever you say yes.
Confessional, flustered, and honest—this poem captures the way love can unravel us, make our thoughts stumble, and leave us quietly devoted. Every word is a small truth, written in real time as emotions take over.
“Thoughts spilled across pages, heart tangled in quiet devotion.”
Flustered AF Poetry by Rowan Evans
Listen—this is odd for me. I don’t normally do this— I’m not usually this vulnerable.
(What am I saying? Yes I am. I’m a confessional poet; all I do is vulnerability.)
But you’ve got me flustered. You’re the static in my brain. I can’t think, can’t speak, until I hear you say my name. Then the words just stumble out.
I don’t think you understand— the kind of power you’ve got over me. Wrapped around your finger? Yeah, I am. You say jump, I say how high— You say kneel, and I don’t question why. If you want me to bark? (Woof!) I’ll become a dog for you. I mean—I’ll be loyal to you.
(Did I just write a line about barking, then say I would be a dog, just to say how loyal I’d be? Yep, sure did.)
I’d always be excited to see you. And you could call me all sorts of names— if you used the right tone of voice, it wouldn’t matter what you were saying. I’d still be happy to be there with you.
And I know, this is all kind of weird… The line about barking, and being a dog, just to set up a comment about loyalty— but I can’t think straight, because you’ve got me flustered beyond reason, and the thoughts are just pouring out. With no rhyme or reason, it’s almost too conversational.
(Have I even used a metaphor yet?)
Inhale. Exhale. Breathe.
You’ve done this a thousand times before, Rowan. Why is this one so different? This isn’t even the first time you’ve written about love like this. It’s not even the first time you’ve written about loving her—like this.
There was… I Love You— Enough to Go Silent, Enough to Break Willingly, and Enough To Learn You. Beautiful Little Cobra, or My Red Flags, and Perfect—For Me.
(That one’s about how you’re perfectly imperfect, but you’re perfect for me.)
The Prayer of Two Tongues, and so many more— I just haven’t had the chance to share. Maybe it’s because I’m scared. So I turned them into— Letters Never Sent.
I mean… I want you to know how I feel, but I don’t want to push you away. I don’t want to lose what we have, yet… I also want it to grow into more.
It’s safe to say, I suspect you don’t feel the same, and you probably never will. (And that’s okay. Really.)
This is just me… bleeding thoughts on a page. And even as I write this to you, I know you’ll probably never read it. Not because you wouldn’t, but because I’m too scared to send it.
(And it’s really long. I know that can be overwhelming. I tried to keep it in check, but the words just kept coming.)
Inhale— and now it’s quiet again. The static fades. Exhale— your name still hums behind my ribs. I tell myself that’s enough. For now, it has to be.
So I don’t send it. But I mean every word.
If you enjoyed this piece, you might also enjoy my other poems about being flustered…
[Rewired (Flustered & Yours)] A raw, breathless confession about what happens when someone gets so deep under your skin that even your lungs forget how to work. A poem about fluster, desire, and the kind of connection that rewires you from the inside out.
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.
Some experiences leave marks that cannot be erased. Some truths are shouted silently in the shadowed corners of memory.
Echoes of Reality is my attempt to give voice to a time I was silenced, to the confusion and pain that lingered long after the moments themselves. This piece does not seek comfort or closure—it seeks acknowledgment. It is a testament to survival, to remembering, and to insisting that my reality is my own.
Read with care, and hold space for the truth it carries.
Echoes of Reality – a poetic testament to memory, trauma, and survival.
Echoes of Reality Poetry by Rowan Evans
Have you heard somber words spoken, and felt the cold touch of trauma? Because I know the confusion caused by their cold invalidation, the questioning of reality, like did it really happen— the way I’m remembering?
Their touches, unwanted, but that’s not what they’ll tell you, gaslighting, rewriting, reality to confuse and manipulate, to keep you questioning, did that really happen— the way I’m remembering?
You try and get away, but it follows, always advancing, unwanted, it was unwanted, but that’s not what they tell you, until eventually, even you’ll believe, it didn’t really happen— the way you’re remembering.
It’s been years, so why do I still feel them, why is my skin not coming clean? If it never happened, why does it replay in my darkest dreams, why does the nightmare keep repeating, if it never happened— the way I’m remembering?
I’ve struggled through the dark, trying to resurface, but I’m lost here, I’m stuck in this place, it endlessly replays and still, I keep questioning, are these even memories? But why would I make it up, for what?
My eyes are open, now I see, this was my reality, it happened, you can’t say it didn’t, because it happened to me, I lived it. I felt it. And I know, it happened exactly— as I’m remembering.
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.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 