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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: goddess worship

  • XIII Psalms for the Goddess in My Mouth — Dark Erotic Poetry by HxNightshade

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    XIII Psalms for the Goddess in My Mouth is a devotional liturgy of flesh and shadow, where sacred worship entwines with erotic surrender. Each psalm is a breath, a bruise, a prayer inked in longing and fire—a testament to the divine power of desire as both sanctification and rebellion. This work invites you to kneel at the altar of the body’s mysteries and to celebrate the sacred ache that lives within intimacy’s shadows. May these psalms kindle your own fierce devotion and awaken the goddess within.

    A gothic altar scene with a figure in black silk, candlelight casting shadows, smoke curling, and faint glowing bruises on skin — evoking sacred sensuality and shadowed devotion.
    Where breath becomes prayer and desire is consecrated in shadow and flame.

    Invocation

    Come to me, O Beloved,
    robed in shadow, crowned in flame.
    Let the candles bow before your beauty,
    let the air grow thick with the incense of your skin.
    I offer my body as scripture,
    my mouth as the temple gates.
    Every breath I draw will be a hymn,
    every ache a confession,
    every surrender a prayer
    laid trembling at your feet—
    inked in bruise, sealed in blood.

    XIII Psalms for the Goddess in My Mouth
    Poetry by HxNightshade

    Close-up of parted lips in soft light, silver glow around them, breath caught mid-air.
    Where breath becomes prayer, hunger writes the liturgy.

    Psalm I
    Opening the Mouth of Prayer

    Your breath brushes my lips,
    and I forget how to pray —
    only how to open,
    how to hunger.

    Figure kneeling before a glowing altar, tongue touching an ancient stone surface, veins faintly lit.
    I kneel, and the stone remembers my tongue.

    Psalm II
    At the Altar of Your Body

    I kneel,
    tongue pressed to your altar,
    tasting the psalm
    that spills and stains.

    Hand lifting ornate chalice of shimmering liquid, candlelight reflecting in deep red velvet shadows.
    Every drop I drink turns the gospel to sin.

    Psalm III
    The Communion Cup

    Your fingers tilt my chin up
    like a priest offering wine,
    and I drink —
    every drop a blasphemy.

    Molten wax dripping on pale skin, steam rising, amber and crimson light surrounding.
    The fire names me yours.

    Psalm IV
    Baptism in Flame

    Melted wax baptizes my skin,
    slow rivers of heat
    naming me yours —
    branding me holy.

    Throat illuminated by silver moonlight, faint stars visible beneath translucent skin, glowing orb swallowed.
    The moon descends, and night swallows me whole.

    Psalm V
    Moon in My Throat

    I take you into my mouth
    as though swallowing the moon,
    my throat silver-lit
    and trembling,
    swallowed by night.

    Hands wrapped in flowing black silk ribbons, loose enough for movement, against dark background.
    Silk remembers what freedom forgets.

    Psalm VI
    Bound in Silk

    Silk coils around my wrists —
    not to bind,
    but to remind me
    I will never be free.

    Crimson fabric parted to reveal pale shadowed thighs, light spilling softly through.
    Prophecy waits between parted seas.

    Psalm VII
    The Parting of Thighs

    Your thighs part like the Red Sea,
    and I am the prophet
    who knows salvation
    is sweet,
    and demands blood.

    Curling smoke in dim candlelight, blurred figure following the trail in shadows.
    I follow the gospel of your scent.

    Psalm VIII
    Incense in the Dark

    Blindfolded,
    I follow the liturgy of your scent,
    the incense of your skin
    pulling me home
    through shadow’s mouth.

    Bruised shoulder glowing faint purple, marked like a sigil in violet-blue shadows.
    Bless me until I bruise.

    Psalm IX
    The Bruised Benediction

    I bite until you mark me,
    bruise blooming like stigmata —
    purple proof I am blessed
    and broken.

    Mouth exhaling visible breath in darkness, shaped like whispered words in the cold air.
    Your breath is the scripture I choke on.

    Psalm X
    The Gospel in Your Breath

    Your voice is the gospel
    I choke on,
    each gasp a hallelujah
    thick with sin.

    Torso in candlelight, ribs crowned with faint golden halos.
    Your ribs are altars; my mouth, the pilgrim.

    Psalm XI
    Halos on Your Ribs

    Candlelight dances on your ribs,
    casting halos where my lips
    will worship next —
    and leave teeth marks.

    Two hands pulling each other close in smoky light, faint spiral surrounding them.
    Eternity is the space between your pull and my surrender.

    Psalm XII
    Eternity Between Us

    Your hands in my hair,
    pulling me deeper,
    and I understand the meaning
    of eternity —
    to never breathe again.

    Kneeling figure on stone steps, tongue extended, skin glowing from within, smoke curling upward.
    I end where I began—still burning, still yours.

    Psalm XIII
    The Prayer That Burns

    I end where I began —
    on my knees,
    tongue still praying,
    body still burning,
    mouth still yours.

    Benediction

    Goddess of my mouth,
    keeper of every trembling vow—
    I leave this altar marked,
    my skin anointed in wax and bruise,
    my throat still sweet with your name,
    my lungs still full of your shadow.
    Carry my devotion into your dreams,
    let it curl like smoke around your sleep.
    When you wake,
    know that somewhere,
    I am still kneeling,
    still praying,
    still burning,
    still yours.

    🔥 Read Next: Choose Your Next Act of Devotion

    Path I — The Sanctuary of Shadows
    [The Gospel According to the Girl with the Graveyard Dress]
    [The Hopeless Romantic Wears Armor]

    Path II — Flesh as Scripture
    [Litany & Tongue: A Devotional Duet]
    [Hymn & Heresy: I Am Sin, I Am Yours]

    Path III — The Eternal Vow
    [Always With You]
    [You’re Not Alone]

    Return to the Library of Ashes — where every poem waits like an unlit candle.
    Leave your own offering through Ko-fi Requests — and I will write for you, as though your name were written on my tongue.

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  • A-Woman (Confession at the Altar of Her) – Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Before I wrote “A-Woman,”
    I was wrapped in silence—the hush that says:
    don’t speak, don’t burden, don’t be too much.

    I almost obeyed.
    Almost.

    But instead, I chose to write toward something softer:
    a living Goddess who welcomes trembling devotion.

    This piece is both confession and quiet rebellion—
    a vow that even in the ache,
    I will not fall silent.

    — Rowan Evans 🕯️🌹

    Person kneeling at a gothic altar before a marble slab with the goddess' silhouette, surrounded by candlelight and roses.
    At the altar of Her: a devotion inked in marrow.

    A-Woman
    (Confession at the Altar of Her)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I don’t know how to say this,
    You’re always on my mind—it’s
    kind of like I can’t shake this feeling,
    but I don’t want to shake this feeling.
    You’ve burrowed under the skin,
    so I hold you deep within—
    you live down in the marrow,
    so even if you disappear tomorrow,
    just know you’ve become
    part of the makeup.

    You’ve got me on my knees,

    Wait.
    Repeat.

    You’ve got me on my knees—
    like I’m deep in prayer,
    but not to God (he’s not there),
    so I bow my head to the Goddess.

    Dear Goddess,
    I come to you today
    to offer my life—
    you could take it away.
    Just say the word,
    I’ll give you
    everything
    on earth.

    A-woman.

    I say A-woman,
    because A-man
    is never enough.

    So tell me what to sacrifice:
    my voice, my pride, my fear of wanting too much.
    Name the part of me I must break
    to be worthy of kneeling here.
    I have nothing holy to offer—
    only scars that still sting,
    and a heart that keeps writing Your name
    even when it shouldn’t.

    Forgive the shaking hands,
    the unsteady faith,
    the nights I almost prayed to be emptied of You—
    but could never bear to.
    Because I don’t know how to let go.
    They say let go and let God—
    but I say hold on and let Goddess.
    I’d give Her everything.

    Amen, A-woman—
    and let this trembling
    be enough.

    We write even when the ache tells us to be silent.
    We confess, we kneel, we question—and still, we love.
    Thank you for reading A-Woman (Confession at the Altar of Her).
    If this piece spoke to something quiet inside you, feel free to share it, leave a comment, or explore more of my work in Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.
    Your presence here matters more than you know. 🖤🕯️🌹

    🔗 You may also like…

    Hex & Flame: A Mirror of Shadows
    Even Still, You Are (My Muse)
    A Letter I’ll Never Send (Prayer of the Heartbroken Heretic)
    Litany & Tongue: A Devotional Duet
    Even If the Sky Falls Black
    Don’t Need to Be First, I Just Want to Be The Last

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    Ko-fi — Poetry by Rowan Evans

  • Even If the Sky Falls Black

    Rowan Evans
    You called yourself 
    a devil-woman, 
    and I smiled 
    like a sinner watching angels fall. 

    She says, 
    “I wish you could see me at my brightest.” 
    But love— 
    I met you in the ruins, 
    and I swear, 
    even your ashes glowed. 
     
    You ask if you deserve these words, 
    as though devotion were a thing to be earned 
    instead of something I bled willingly— 
    ink, soul and starlight, 
    dragged from the marrow 
    to spell your name in reverence. 
     
    You were fire-burned, 
    soul-scabbed, 
    eyes like war-torn altars 
    and I— 
    I fell to my knees anyway. 
     
    You want to give me the sun, 
    but I have seen its envy. 
    The stars? 
    I would rip them from their heavens 
    just to return the shimmer 
    you lost in the dark. 
     
    You called yourself 
    a devil-woman, 
    and I smiled 
    like a sinner watching angels fall. 
     
    Yes— 
    you’re all thorns and temptation, 
    rage and soft wreckage, 
    but do you not know? 
    Even Lucifer was once the Morning Star, 
    and I would follow your light 
    through hell 
    and back again. 
     
    You are grace wrapped in fury, 
    the kind of storm that leaves me kneeling, 
    kissed by lightning, 
    whispering prayers in your name 
    as though your laughter could resurrect me. 
     
    And I— 
    I’m not leaving. 
     
    Not when your darkness 
    made my heart a cathedral, 
    not when your voice 
    taught my ghosts how to sing. 
     
    I will always be near— 
    in breath, in spirit, 
    in the hush between your sobs 
    and the sacred silence that follows. 
     
    You deserve these words, 
    and a thousand more. 
    You deserve the cosmos carved into lullabies, 
    the moon weeping its light into your palms. 
     
    You— 
    with your shadows and softness, 
    your fierce, aching heart— 
    are the most worthy thing 
    I’ve ever written for. 
     
    Even if the sky falls black, 
    I’ll still call your name 
    a holy thing.