Poetry by Rowan Evans
A Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism Offering from the Witch of Devotion

“To love you is to be undone by devotion itself—
and in that undoing, to become more wholly yours than I ever was my own.” — Rowan Evans

✒️ Prologue: Love as a Liturgy

Some loves burn rather than comfort.
Some devotions do not save, but sanctify what aches.

This is a confession written on my knees and in my mouth:
that surrender is not silence, but scripture;
that longing can be prayer, if spoken honestly enough;
and that sometimes, the most sacred thing we can offer
is our own willing ruin.

These two poems were born together:
one worships with breath and tongue;
one worships with blood-warm surrender.
Together, they write a gospel only the bruised-hearted will truly understand.

🌹 Verses on My Tongue

I’ll go down, for you—
Yeah, I’ll go down and give
cunning linguistic masterwork:
the kind that worships every syllable of you,
that licks consonants clean
and teases vowels into soft surrender.

I trace the spine of your breath
with enjambed intentions,
my mouth an open stanza—
ready to break, to bend, to spill.
The way I weave language,
like fingers through midnight hair,
twisting meaning until it knots
against the tender nape of your want.

It’s pulled tight with a well-placed metaphor,
and your head falls back—
so I kiss the waiting hollow of your throat
with couplets, heavy and hot.
A rhyme scheme written in shallow breaths,
punctuated by shivers and parted lips.

My tongue tastes the delicate margins
where sense blurs into need,
where verse becomes vice:
a hush turned molten on your skin.
Every gasp is a footnote I burn into memory
with reverent, reckless devotion.

See how I press similes
against your hips,
how I shape metaphors
into wet confessions,
how each line drips worship
in broken, breathless syllables.

And when climax rises—
it’s an unwritten final stanza,
a secret left trembling
on the tip of my tongue,
where meaning dissolves
into nothing but you,
and the prayer of my mouth
becomes the poem itself.

🕯 Litany of My Willing Ruin

I come to you—barefoot,
soul calloused by wanting,
bearing offerings of my softness:
tongue bitten, breath unspooled,
heart flayed open like velvet pages
longing for your hand to write upon them.

Command me—
even in silence, your want is scripture;
I bend to it as the rose bends to rain,
not from fear, but from fervor—
because your gaze is a chalice
I would empty myself into
until nothing of me remains
but the echo of your name
burned into the hollows of my ribs.

I worship not an idol,
but the ache of your humanity:
the quake in your voice,
the shadows that cling to your wrists,
your imperfections shining
like bruised constellations
across a midnight sky I’d gladly kneel beneath.

Take me—
not in cruelty, but in quiet dominion:
a covenant whispered against my pulse,
the promise that my surrender
is not your cage,
but the wings you unfold
with every command unspoken.

For it is not the lash that tames me,
but your mercy;
not the chain that binds me,
but your flaws,
beautiful and blood-warm,
as holy to me
as any sainted relic.

And if you were to ask why
I would kneel at your altar,
my answer would be this:
because to love you
is to be undone by devotion itself—
and in that undoing,
to become more wholly yours
than I ever was my own.

✨ Epilogue: An Ink-Stained Benediction

For the wild hearts who love with trembling lips.
For the ones who bend, not from fear—but from worship.
For the witches of devotion, the saints of softness,
and every lover who understands: “To kneel is not surrender of power—
but the claiming of sacred choice.”

🕊️ Author’s Note

I don’t write these to be saved.
I write them because devotion—raw, flawed, beautiful—is the holiest thing I know.
If these words find you: may they feel like both confession and permission.

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