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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Gotham

  • Reliquary of Broken Sons – A Vignette of the Broken Saint & Clown Prince | Neo-Gothic Fanfic

    Rowan Evans

    ☽ Invocation ☾

    In every cathedral of ruin, there are relics left behind: a scuffed pearl, a single breath, a name spoken in marrow.
    This is the first confession—the night blood crowned them brothers, and ruin gave them different prayers to keep.

    This is the…

    The Broken Saint and Clown Prince stand in a misty Gotham alley, moonlight glinting off scattered pearls.
    Two brothers crowned by the same violence—bound by pearls, ruin, and marrow-deep confession.

    🕯️ Reliquary of Broken Sons

    A Vignette of the Broken Saint & the Clown Prince
    Prose by Rowan Evans

    I. Crime Alley, then —

    They called him Tommy — a name softer than winter’s breath, a name Mother spoke like a lullaby.
    He always trailed behind: eyes on moth wings dancing in gaslight, heart beating its own distracted hymn.

    “Tommy, hurry up,” Father’s voice sighed—warm, alive, wrapped in silk and fatigue.

    That’s when the stranger stepped from the shadowed mouth of the alley.

    The first gunshot rang out—a psalm cracked open by violence.
    Mother’s pearls scattered across wet stone, prayer beads turned relic in an instant.

    The second gunshot folded Father beside her, a ruin crowned in blood.

    For a single heartbeat, the world held its breath.
    Bruce dropped to his knees, hands trembling against still-warm skin, lips moving in a prayer no god would hear.

    Tommy turned, too late to stop it, too late to save anyone—only to witness.

    His gaze fell to the scattered pearls: white ghosts glimmering in gutter water.
    He knelt—not by the bodies, but by the relics.

    The first pearl in his palm felt like a sacrament.
    The second, a curse.
    By the third, laughter coiled in his chest—not joy, but something older, darker:
    the knowing that ruin could be beautiful.

    Two brothers crowned by the same violence:
    Bruce, frozen in devotion and disbelief.
    Tommy, hands shaking as he gathered the broken rosary of their childhood.

    II. Crime Alley, now —

    Years peeled away, masks and madness replacing boyhood.
    The alley remains the same: cracked cobblestones, gutter water black as confession, and the echo of two gunshots still humming in the marrow of night.

    Bruce stands silent: the Broken Saint, devotion calcified into armor.
    Tommy steps forward from the shadows: the Clown Prince, painted grin cracked by memory, pearls still clutched like relics.

    Moonlight spills ruin across cowl and greasepaint alike, turning them both into statues of grief.

    The pearls glimmer between them—white scars that remember what words cannot.

    And then—from lips painted red, voice husked by time and heresy:

    “Hello, Brucey…
    never thought you’d see me again. Did you…
    brother…?” the Clown Prince smiles.

    The word falls heavy as a funeral bell: part curse, part confession, part unholy benediction.

    And in that breathless hush, Crime Alley remembers them:
    not Saint and Monster, not Hero and Villain—
    but blood, bone, and ruin born of the same cathedral night.

    ☽ Benediction ☾

    May the ruin remember why it loved you both.
    May the pearls keep your prayers, even broken.
    And though salvation never came,
    may your confessions remain holy in their endlessness.

    🔗 Read Next (Suggestions)…

    [The Vigil of the Broken Saint] – where the confession began, and ruin became devotion.
    [The Vigil of the Clown Prince] – where laughter rotted into liturgy, and devotion wore a painted grin.

    The Rest of the Vigils (so far)…

    [The Vigil of the Twisted Harlequin]
    [The Vigil of the Poisoned Rose]
    [The Vigil of the First Son]

    Or visit [About NGCR] to learn more about this movement—and if you feel called, [submit your own writing] to be featured.

    If my words speak to you, and you’d like to help keep this flame burning — or if you’d like a custom poem woven just for you (or someone dear) — you can do so here:

    Ko-fi — Poetry by Rowan Evans

  • The Vigil of the Poisoned Rose | Neo-Gothic Confessional

    Rowan Evans

    ☽ Introduction ☾

    Every garden remembers both the hand that nurtures and the hand that poisons.
    This is the confession of Gotham’s scarlet heretic:
    not saint, not martyr—but something thorned and blooming,
    keeper of ruin and reluctant tenderness.
    This is…

    Gothic cathedral draped in thorned crimson roses and green ivy, moonlight casting shadows across broken marble. Symbolic vigil for Poison Ivy’s devotion and rage.
    Even in ruin, the garden remembers her—thorns entwined with mercy, venom whispered as prayer. 🌹🩸✨

    The Vigil of the Poisoned Rose
    Prose by Rowan Evans

    I keep vigil in a cathedral of thorn and ruin—
    roots cracking marble, petals soft as bruised confessions.
    The vines remember everything: laughter turned lash, devotion curdled to delirium, love that tasted of ash.

    The Clown Prince crowned himself in carrion and chaos;
    his laughter poisoned every garden it touched, and yet—
    once, I let my petals tilt toward that unholy sun,
    believing ruin might remember how to cradle something living.

    And her—my twisted harlequin:
    she knelt beside him in worship and in terror, ribs tattooed with punchlines sharp enough to draw blood.
    I saw the bruises masked in painted devotion;
    I whispered to her marrow that love was not meant to devour,
    that even venom could be tender if the hand that offered it dared to hold, not break.

    Yet I, too, am not blameless:
    my rage roots deep, my vengeance blooms red as spilled confession.
    Mercy and malice entwine in my marrow until I can no longer tell thorn from bloom.
    The garden I tend is as much graveyard as sanctuary.

    The altar breathes earth’s bloodied breath;
    my prayers rise, whispered in poison and petals,
    not for absolution, but remembrance.
    For the shadows I could not save,
    for the lover I could not change,
    for the feral girl whose laughter once grew alongside my own.

    Some nights, the vines still ache for what we built, even if it rotted from within.
    But devotion demands thorns as well as bloom.
    I remain—haunted, unrepentant, alive—
    because this, too, is devotion:
    to love what might destroy you,
    to cradle venom as gently as hope,
    and to name even your ruin holy.

    ☽ Benediction ☾

    May the ruin remember why it crowned you in thorns.
    May your poison feed what still dares to bloom.
    And though no god dares absolve you,
    may your vigil remain eternal—
    a psalm of petals, venom, and marrow-deep mercy.

    🌹 Read Next Suggestions:

    If this vigil spoke to the marrow of your own shadows, step deeper into the confessional:

    The Vigil of the Clown Prince
    The Vigil of the Twisted Harlequin
    The Vigil of the Broken Saint
    The Vigil of the First Son

    Each a psalm of ruin, devotion, and the sacred ache of what we dare to love—even when the world calls it madness.

    Or visit [About NGCR] to learn more about this movement—and if you feel called, [submit your own writing] to be featured.

    If my words speak to you, and you’d like to help keep this flame burning — or if you’d like a custom poem woven just for you (or someone dear) — you can do so here:

    Ko-fi — Poetry by Rowan Evans

  • The Vigil of the Twisted Harlequin | Neo-Gothic Prose on Rebellion

    Rowan Evans

    ☽ Introduction ☾

    Every cathedral remembers the hands that built it — and the hands that broke it.
    This is the testament of Gotham’s laughing apostate:
    once kneeling in carrion chapels beside the king of rot, now risen, bruised and unbound.
    Not crowned by grace, but by ruin reclaimed and ribs that still remember laughter turned lash.
    This is…

    Cracked marble cathedral with a harlequin mask, moonlit stained glass shards, and wilted rose — symbolizing Harley Quinn’s vigil and rebellion.
    Painted in grief, stitched in giggles — her vigil isn’t for salvation, but for the self she swore she wouldn’t bury.

    ☽ The Vigil of the Twisted Harlequin ☾
    Prose by Rowan Evans

    I keep vigil in the bones of his cathedral —
    the funhouse we called sanctuary, walls lacquered with spit-laced prayers and blood that never dried.
    The city itself? Our slaughterhouse chapel — gutters still gargle our shared delirium, alleys still echo jokes that tasted like venom.

    I wear the scars he left me like relics — bruises reborn as ink, ribs tattooed with the punchlines that almost broke me.
    My prayers? Crooked confessions spat between cracked teeth — not to be heard, but to remind myself I still have a voice.

    The stained glass? Daggers we shattered together — now each shard remembers both of us:
    the Clown Prince crowned in carrion, and his harlequin kneeling at an altar built of bone and betrayal.

    Moonlight slices through ruin — casts my grin across cracked marble, where I once begged him to see me instead of the echo.
    The gargoyles remember the girl who painted devotion in red and white, only to find madness demanded her marrow, not her heart.

    Agony was our liturgy, ruin our gospel.
    His laughter crowned me queen of decay — but in the silence after the last joke curdled, I found my own feral hymn.

    Some nights, the rot still whispers his name in the marrow of my grin —
    a phantom crown of splintered love pressing blood to scalp, laughter curling like a noose.
    But my devotion decayed; my grin grew fangs.

    The creed that beats behind scarred ribs:
    I knelt in carrion for a king who mistook love for leash. I rose when I learned laughter could be mine alone.

    Now I haunt these pews not to mourn him, but to remember what ruin cost me —
    and what marrow-deep rebellion gave back: breath unbroken, knuckles bloodied but free.

    His vigil rots on the throne of carrion.
    Mine stalks the shadows — not in his name, but in spite of it.
    The marrow remembers, but the marrow is mine now.

    ☽ Benediction ☾

    May the ruin remember why you unstitched devotion from your ribs.
    May your laughter remain feral — marrow-deep and sovereign, a psalm no king can claim.
    And though no god dares crown you,
    may your vigil remain eternal — a testament carved in scars, rebellion, and ruin reclaimed.

    🔗 You might also like…

    Every vigil casts its own shadow.
    If The Vigil of the First Son has found a quiet corner in your marrow, you may also wander these chapels of ruin and devotion:

    The Vigil of the Broken Saint
    The Vigil of the Clown Prince
    The Vigil of the First Son

    Each is a prayer, a confession, a testament carved in bruise, bone, and breath.

    Psalm of the Spiraling Tongue — A Prayer Against Goodbye
    Psalm of the Half-Loved — A Prayer for the Mercy of Goodbye
    The Scourge They Named in Whispered Psalms

    If my words speak to you, and you’d like to help keep this flame burning — or if you’d like a custom poem woven just for you (or someone dear) — you can do so here:

    Ko-fi — Poetry by Rowan Evans