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 poem is me flexing. Not for anyone else—just for myself, for the part of me that has been writing for 22 years, quietly, consistently, and passionately. I Write is a celebration of range, of defiance, of unapologetic ego in the face of naysayers.
It’s for the poets who refuse to shrink, the writers who keep creating even when no one’s watching, and anyone who’s ever been told “you can’t” or “you wouldn’t.”
Poetry has always been my sword and my sanctuary, my rebellion and my worship. Here, I wield both unapologetically.
— Rowan Evans
Bold, unapologetic, and overflowing with creative power—I Write by Rowan Evans.
I Write Poetry by Rowan Evans
I write love.
I write pain.
I write erotic.
I write tame.
I write rage.
I write whimsy.
I’ve got range—
and they can’t stand me.
They said I couldn’t do it—
so I fuckin’ did it anyway.
They said I wouldn’t do it—
so I did it in their fuckin’ face.
You say you write poems too?
Then why’d your girl message me—
said she read my romantic shit,
wishing somebody would write like that for her.
I responded simply—
that’s what she deserves.
Worship in words.
A poem that told her
what she’s worth.
She said, “my man’s a poet,
But he don’t write like you.”
I responded with an ego—
“Yeah, nobody do.”
I mean, does…
‘Cause nobody does it like me.
I said—
I could write you
a poem.
Or two.
Maybe three.
Four, if you like.
A thousand more.
Rhyme it.
Free verse it.
Doesn’t matter.
I’ll do it all.
And that’s when—
Your man said I couldn’t do it—
so I fuckin’ did it anyway.
He said I wouldn’t do it—
so I did it in his fuckin’ face.
Yeah.
Nobody.
Does it like me.
So I did it
in their fuckin’ face.
And I’d do it again.
If you want to see the full range of what I write, 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 →
Sometimes love is tender. Sometimes it’s ridiculous. Sometimes it’s equal parts devotion, lust… and, well… Pokémon references.
This one’s for the bold, the playful, and anyone who knows that love can be legendary. Read it aloud.
Laugh. Blush. Feel.
Sometimes love is ridiculous. Sometimes, it’s legendary.
PokéDevotion Poetry by Rowan Evans
My devotion is true, just like my love for you— I won’t whisper it quietly, I’ll scream it out, Loudred.
Everything that comes to me, I’ll give to you— that’s the Plusle of being Minun. We’ll dance to our own Volbeat, carefree, spinning in our rhythm.
I’ll shift with your emotional weather— your personal Castform. I won’t ask you to change or transform, just be.
If you’re ever stressed or tense, spread them wide— I’ll rest my head between ’em, and give you a Lickilicky.
If you say you’re not ready, I won’t ask, Wynaut? We can go slow, we can Spheal it out together.
But I must ask, Relicanth—you see what you mean to me? You’re my Latias, so I’ll never say Latios to you.
You’ve been with idiots and assholes, but you see clearly— you know I’m Rhyperior. I’ll wrap you in devotion, Swadloon; if they think there’s room to come between— they’re wrong. I won’t Leavanny.
I promise— I won’t let harm touch your life. I’ll protect you until my last breath; I’ll keep the Shieldon.
And if you choose me, I’ll be your starter, your best friend. The Pikachu to your Ash, you and I until the very end.
I am sorry for this poem and the one linked below…
[Vaporeon Drip, Flareon Bliss] A wild, playful, and shockingly romantic Pokémon-inspired poem exploring devotion, desire, and every Eevee evolution.
Where the Ocean Dreams & Where the Dream Took Us | Double-Feature by Rowan Evans
“Dreams of love and longing: Where the Ocean Dreams & Where the Dream Took Us, a double-feature of poetry by Rowan Evans.”
🌊 Author’s Note
Where the Ocean Dreams came from a dream that felt more like a visitation than a vision—an intimate moment between souls suspended somewhere between waking and eternity. It’s a poem about love that speaks in multiple languages, not just through words, but through trust, fear, and the quiet courage to hope again.
The ocean here is both witness and mirror—reflecting two hearts learning to believe in tenderness after the wreckage of past storms. It’s a story of love as rebirth, of vulnerability as strength, of finding the divine in human connection.
This piece continues my exploration of Neo‑Gothic Confessional Romanticism, where love and faith intertwine with the spectral and sacred. Dreams, language, and devotion converge here—not as fantasy, but as truth dressed in salt and moonlight.
Where the Ocean Dreams Short Poetic Story by Rowan Evans
The sea sighed against the waiting shore, its breath cool and endless, curling around my bare feet before slipping away again— a heartbeat, a memory, a whispered promise.
The world was bathed in a blue hush, a soft exhale stitched with secrets, and I listened, not for answers, but for the songs folded into every wave, for the words the earth had never dared to speak aloud.
Behind me, her voice rose— gentle as mist, sure as the tide— and the world shifted.
I turned, slowly, as though waking from a thousand-year dream, and there she was— My Muse— woven of light and longing, smiling with the tenderness of all the summers I had never lived.
My heart moved before my body did, drawing me to her in a single, breathless moment. Our hands found each other— a touch that asked for nothing and gave everything.
I spoke the truths I had carried for what felt like forever: that I would wait, that I would be the shore for her storms, the steady hand, the quiet shelter.
Lowering my gaze, then lifting it again— trembling, open, unafraid— meeting the ink-filled oceans of her eyes, I whispered into the salt-kissed silence:
“Mahal kita, palagi.” I love you. Always.
Her lips parted— the beginnings of a reply blooming there, warm as sunlight after rain— but she hesitated, the words hung in her throat, then, her lips parted again.
At first, no words came— only the shimmer of tears rising in her eyes, brimming until they overflowed, carving rivers down her cheeks.
Her hand trembled in mine, not with fear, but with the weight of a heart long kept hidden, long guarded.
“I’m scared,” she whispered— so raw, so real— her voice cracking like a shell split open by the tide.
“I don’t know how to trust this… but I want to. I want to believe you— believe in you.”
Her fingers tightened around mine, clutching, anchoring, as though afraid I might vanish with the next breath.
“I’ve been broken so many times,” she said, the words spilling now, “and every time, I told myself never again. Never again.”
Her voice faltered— then steadied, fierce in its trembling.
“But you… you make me want to try. You make me want to hope again.”
I saw it then— the battle waging in her, the courage it took just to stand there with me.
Tears blurred my vision too, but I held her gaze, held her heart as gently as I could.
She stepped closer, so close I could feel the storm inside her, and in a voice cracked with grief, strength, and something achingly new, she said it—
“Mahal din kita,” she breathed. “I love you, too.”
And the ocean roared its approval, its waves thundering like a heartbeat, like a promise kept.
There, where the world breathed in salt and stars, two hearts found each other— fragile, fearless, whole.
🌙 Bridging Note
These two pieces are born of dreams, experienced on back-to-back nights. The first, Where the Ocean Dreams, unfolded as a quiet, tender reverie—an emotional awakening, where connection and trust whispered like the tide. The very next night, Where the Dream Took Us arrived, carrying that same heart forward, immersing it in desire, intimacy, and the full weight of longing made tangible.
Together, they form a continuum of a single emotional journey: from the soft, luminous stirrings of love to the fierce, breathless affirmation of it, each dream illuminating a different facet of devotion.
🕯️ Author’s Note
Where the Dream Took Us was born from a dream that lingered long after waking—one of those rare visions where desire and devotion blur until they’re indistinguishable. It’s a confession written from that in‑between space, where the spiritual and the sensual intertwine.
This isn’t a poem about physicality alone; it’s about intimacy as revelation—about being seen, known, and adored in ways that transcend the waking world. Even in the dream, there was love, reverence, and quiet recognition: a soul remembering another through touch.
As with much of my work, this piece belongs to the canon of Neo‑Gothic Confessional Romanticism, where vulnerability becomes sacred and longing is its own form of prayer.
⚠️ Content Warning
Where the Dream Took Us contains explicit sexual content and intimate themes. Reader discretion is advised.
Where the Dream Took Us Poetry by Rowan Evans
We were borrowed warmth in an unfamiliar place, a quiet Air BNB where the lights were dim but every part of you was glowing— in laughter, in glances, in the way you leaned a little closer with each sip, each word.
Your voice curled around me like smoke and silk, and every time your hand brushed mine, a storm stirred beneath my skin. You tilted your head, smiled that smile— the one that crumbles my guard— and suddenly, space didn’t exist.
Our lips met—soft, slow, a breathless yes hidden inside a kiss. You tasted like longing and maybe, like all the things we never said but always felt.
Your fingers found the edge of my shirt, tugging gently as if asking permission I would give a thousand times over. When it slid from my shoulders, your nails traced fire over bare skin, and I shivered under the weight of your gaze, drunk not on the wine, but on you.
We moved like poetry, in soft lines and tender metaphors— me guiding you gently to the bed, your back arched just slightly as I kissed your neck, whispering love into the places where heartbreak once lived.
I told you I loved you— not out of desperation, but devotion. Because even in dreams, your presence feels like destiny, like a truth I was always meant to know.
You helped me undress you, hands trembling just enough to say this mattered, that this wasn’t fantasy but something deeper wearing the skin of a dream.
When I kissed your stomach, your breath hitched— music I wanted to memorize. You lifted your hips with quiet need, and I shed your last piece of armor, settling between your thighs like this was where I was always meant to be.
You gasped my name like prayer and wildfire, fingers laced in my hair as I worshipped every inch of you— not to prove myself, but to remind you of what it means to be adored.
And when I woke— sheets cold, heart aching— I held the dream like a promise: that even if only in sleep, I touched the stars that wear your name.
If you’ve made it this far and want to read more of my poetry, you can find it [here]in the The Library of Ashes.
Respectfully is a playful exploration of desire, boundaries, and the contradictions that exist within intimacy and expression. It fuses humor, Gothic sensibilities, and erotic confession, embracing both the feral and the polite aspects of human longing. The poem isn’t just about lust—it’s about intent: how even the most untamed impulses can coexist with consent, respect, and self-awareness.
In crafting this piece, I wanted to explore the tension between saying exactly what you feel and maintaining decorum, the duality of a poet’s boldness and manners. Each “Respectfully” is both a comedic punctuation and a manifesto: you can want what you want, but you can also honor the boundaries of others—and yourself.
This poem celebrates the audacity of voice, the wit of language, and the sacredness of choice—where grammar and desire meet in an unapologetically Gothic, confessional way.
— Rowan Evans
Where feral desire meets impeccable manners—Respectfully, poetry by Rowan Evans.
Respectfully Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’ve been known to say some incredibly feral things— and I always mean them. I would let you absolutely ruin me. Respectfully, of course.
I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I just have no filter— a poet’s curse, you see. I speak in impulses and italics. You could hold me down and choke me. Respectfully, for real.
I would let you do unholy things to me. Respectfully. I would let you tie me up with rope— You could bruise and break me. Respectfully, I hope.
It’s not that I’m trying to shock you, it’s just that desire sounds better when it’s proofread with manners. Like—yes, I’d sin, but I’d also say please and thank you. A gentlethem of chaos, if you will.
Every filthy line I write is sealed with consent and courtesy. That’s the difference between vulgar and art. I say “I’d ruin your life,” then I spell-check it for tone. Respectfully.
If I ever send you a message that makes you blush, know that I meant it— but I also meant no harm. It’s the duality of lust and decorum. Saint in the streets, Sinner with impeccable grammar.
So when I say, “I’d let you wreck me in ways that require a safety word and a sonnet,” you’ll know it’s not a threat. It’s a prayer with boundaries.
Because that’s who I am— a walking contradiction in lipstick and ink, a poet of piety and profanity, who loves like a cathedral on fire and means it…
Respectfully.
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[Muse of Mayhem] “She is fury made flesh, a witch with war in her hips, and I— I volunteer as tribute.”
Muse of Mayhem explores the intoxicating pull of chaos, desire, and surrender in Rowan Evans’ signature Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism style.
[My Red Flags] “You told me you had anger issues. But I’ve only seen you furious in defense—a saint of righteous fire.”
‘My Red Flags’ is a confession disguised as a love spell. In this dark romantic poem, Rowan Evans turns every warning sign into worship—an ode to danger, devotion, and the art of loving without fear of burning.
[Retribution in Shadows] A shadowed vow, a vigil in the dark, and a voice that rises for the unheard. ‘Retribution in Shadows’ is a dark Gothic poem about imagined justice, written with the intensity of protective love and raw emotion.
If you know me in real life and you read this… no the fuck you didn’t.
Author’s Note
There’s something about her that disarms me. A magnetism wrapped in mayhem—smirks and spells and unapologetic fire. I didn’t mean to be drawn in like this. Didn’t mean to find arousal in her chaos or reverence in her rage. But here I am, offering myself like a willing sacrifice—not for her approval, not even for love, but because she moves something in me. She reflects the darkest, most delicious corners of my soul—the ones I’ve spent a lifetime hiding, or worse… watering down.
When she said she wanted him to watch her fuck another man, smiling the whole time, I didn’t hesitate. I volunteered. Not just because it turned me on (though it absolutely did), but because in that moment, I wanted to be her weapon. Her ritual. Her revenge.
It’s not just the fantasy. It’s her. The way she owns herself—raw, untamed, unfiltered. She feels like a mirror made of fire.
And maybe…
Just maybe…
I’ve always been a little flammable.
“The Muse of Mayhem: fury, desire, and chaos embodied in one magnetic figure.”
Muse of Mayhem Poetry by Rowan Evans (Written May 16th, 2025)
She laughs, and the world wilts—
a garden set ablaze by a careless smile.
I swear the shadows lean closer
just to hear her whisper curses
with venom on her tongue
and starlight in her eyes.
She is fury made flesh,
a witch with war in her hips,
and I—
I volunteer as tribute.
While you spoke of
watching him gasp his last breath
in bitter silence,
I was biting my lip in awe,
moaning at the sight of your wrath—
divine, deliberate,
beautiful.
You said you’d fuck another man
while making him watch.
You smiled.
I offered my body
like a knife to your altar.
Burn me,
bury me,
brand me—
I’ll still crawl back,
hungry for more.
No one’s ever mirrored
my taste for chaos
with such elegance,
no one’s ever made me feel
so seen
in my darkness.
You speak,
and I turn to ash
willingly.
Muse of mayhem,
witch of want,
curse me with your presence again—
I’ll beg.
I’ll bleed.
I’ll write you
into every forbidden stanza
until even the moon
blushes at your name.
This poem is a surrender to fire and control, an exploration of desire and the delicious tension between breaking and rising. It is not a confession, but an invocation of intensity—body, mind, and soul.
“Surrender to the fire, and rise.” – HxNightshade, Ruined & Rising
Invocation
I call the storm of sensation, the ache of longing, the fire that demands surrender. Come forth, reader— feel the pulse, feel the rise, feel the release.
Ruined & Rising Poetry by HxNightshade
I wrap myself in need…
I ache to bleed—
to be unraveled…
just to be undone by you.
Let me taste your fire…
let it lick my skin…
let it scorch the nerves beneath my pulse…
let it fuel my desire—
as you watch me rise…
higher…
higher still.
Hands on my throat…
squeeze tighter…
feel me gasp,
feel me tremble.
This isn’t a game…
this isn’t a joke…
I want you…
all of you…
in full, unrelenting control.
On my knees…
begging, please…
pleading for release…
for the heat…
for the storm…
for the way you make me ache
and ache again.
Go ahead—
just tease me.
Push me…
pull me…
watch me fracture and fly.
Every shiver… every sigh…
your fire sears through me.
Every glance… every touch…
I am yours…
completely…
without restraint.
And as I rise…
higher…
higher…
your gaze anchors me
even as my body forgets itself
in the delicious torment
you command.
Benediction
May the flames that consume and elevate guide you. May the ache you witness awaken your own pulse. Carry the memory of heat and ascent.
Journey into the Hexverse
The Twisted Daughter of Sappho | Hex Nightshade A shadow-slick daughter of Sappho, untamed and reverent, exploring devotion that burns like candle wax on bare skin. A poem of sacred ruin, feral fidelity, and intoxicating desire.
Hymns & Heresy II: Devotion Draped in Black | Hex Nightshade A midnight liturgy of devotion and surrender—where worship is whispered in shadow, every heartbeat a hymn, and the Queen reigns in velvet flame.
Spellbound | Rowan Evans A dark, intoxicating poem of desire and devotion—Spellbound is an invocation of fire, blood, and forbidden magic. Rowan Evans crafts a ritualistic experience of passion, soul, and unbroken vows.
This poem is an exploration of devotion, desire, and inheritance—not of blood, but of passion and sacred intimacy. Inspired by the haunting echoes of Sappho’s lyricism, it is a declaration of being untamed, feral, and wholly devoted to the power of love as both pleasure and ritual. It is for anyone who has ever inherited a flame and learned to worship it without fear.
Where devotion and desire intertwine—The Twisted Daughter of Sappho.
Invocation
I call upon the muses of ink and shadow, the voices of women who loved without apology. Guide this poem into the hearts that dare to feel, and let it awaken the devotion that lives in ruin and reverence.
The Twisted Daughter of Sappho Poetry by HxNightshade
I was born in the hush between her stanzas, cut from the crimson silk of her longing— a hymn dressed in midnight, with ink-stained lips that learned to pray by kissing the pulse beneath a woman’s throat.
They say I inherited her hunger— that slow-burning ache spun in wine-dark velvet, the way she worshipped with her teeth, with fingertips that pressed poems into the hollows of another’s hips.
I do not walk—I unfurl in gardens overgrown with need, where every petal blushes at the way I say her name.
I have tasted sin shaped like softness— a girl with smoke in her laugh, who bloomed open like secrets beneath my ruined hands.
She called me a heretic of the heart, a nymph with sacrilege in my smile. But I only ever offered what Sappho once swore holy: devotion that burned like candle wax on bare skin.
There are nights I write oaths on mirrors— not in ink, but fog and want. Nights when my thighs remember every syllable she moaned, and I call it worship because it was.
And if I am twisted— let it be like a vine wrapped tight around her ribs, a tether of thorn and pleasure, sacred in its ruin.
Because love, when spoken from my tongue, is not a sin. It is a spell. A vow. A resurrection.
And I—I am not her shame, but her successor. Her shadow-slick daughter, reverent in ruin, feral in fidelity.
Benediction
May the words linger like fire on skin, may the devotion they carry reach those who seek it, and may the shadow of Sappho’s daughters walk with you, feral, faithful, and unashamed.
Poetic Lineage
The Daughter of Plath | Rowan Evans In The Daughter of Plath, Rowan Evans writes as the heir to a ghost—cradling grief not her own, baptized in bell jars, and building a cathedral from ash. This is a confession, a prayer, and a refusal to let the ache fall silent.
The Daughter of Dickinson | Roo the Poet Step into the quiet rebellion of Roo the Poet, a lyrical homage to Emily Dickinson. The Daughter of Dickinson traces wonder, whimsy, and secret power, revealing poetry as both magic and manifesto.
If you want to explore more of my work beyond these pieces, you can find the full archive inThe Library of Ashes.
After Dark II plunges fully into the cathedral of touch, rhythm, and whispered surrender. It is where mischief, desire, and shadowed devotion converge—where syllables become caresses, puns trace curves, and the cadence of language mirrors the pulse of lust. Read it as you would a secret pressed to skin: let the velvet, silk, and darkness carry you, every line a confession, every rhyme a shiver, every word a thrill.
— Rowan Evans
Whispered secrets, shadows, and silk—experience the Gothic sensuality of After Dark II.
Slim & Shady: After Dark II Poetry by Rowan Evans
I slip through shadows, velvet and silk, Fingers like whispers, breath dripping like milk. Your name on my tongue, a secret in rhyme, Time bends, collapses, seduces the night.
I dance in the dark, lit by candle’s flame, Every sigh a sonnet, every gasp a claim. My teeth trace your pulse, my lips map your skin, Every shadowed corner a place to begin.
Pun-dripped promises, syllables tease, Tongue twists in riddles, bending with ease. Velvet & venom, velvet & flame, I write you in chaos, you answer in name.
Hands like punctuation, pressing and curling, Wrists in my fingers, hearts wildly twirling. I am the pause between your breath and moan, The secret verse, the whispered unknown.
Ink of desire stains the cathedral floor, Every step a stanza, every touch an encore. I slide in your silence, melt in your sound, After Dark—where mischief is crowned.
I am shadowed devotion, lust in disguise, A labyrinth of verses, a feast for your eyes. Temptation, obsession, sin gently unfurled, I write you, I crave you, I pun you—my world.
Velvet shadows curl, I vanish, I tease, The cathedral waits, the next act to please. I am slim, I am shady, I ignite and I bend, After Dark—the prelude to the end.
Blood & Brimstone plunges fully into intensity and surrender, where chaos and devotion collide. Every line is a pulse, a gasp, a hymn of desire written in rhythm and shadow. This piece is a celebration of total immersion—of giving, of yielding, and of the fiery communion of words, touch, and darkness.
— Rowan Evans
Blood and brimstone, fire and shadow—enter the cathedral of passion with Blood & Brimstone.
Blood drips like ink, crimson on the page, Brimstone burns in the air, a holy rage. Your hands command, your teeth decree, Every vein alive, every nerve set free.
I kneel in fire, I coil in flame, Each gasp, each moan, a whispered name. Velvet edges tear, silk melts to ash, Your shadowed laughter—an unforgiving lash.
Sin courses deep, a river through my core, I give, I crumble, I bleed, I adore. Fingertips trace a cathedral of pain, And still, I rise, only to fall again.
Brimstone drips from your gaze, searing, bright, I drown in the heat, lost in the night. The air tastes of iron, of desire, of sin, A sacred chaos, where I cannot win.
You mark me holy, desecrate with love, Each strike, each touch—a blessing from above. I writhe, I shiver, I collapse, I plead, Every syllable taken, every shadow freed.
Blood hums the rhythm, sin chants the rhyme, Velvet and venom, silk and crime. I am your canvas, your altar, your hymn, Every inch of me consumed at the brim.
The cathedral quakes beneath our devotion, A hurricane of want, a storm of motion. Brimstone kisses, blood-laced sighs, Your shadowed kingdom—my willing demise.
I am tethered, undone, utterly yours, Lost in the fire, the velvet, the sores. Each gasp a verse, each shiver a song, Blood & Brimstone—where sinners belong.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 