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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: gothic literature

  • The 13 Mirrored Gospels | A Liturgy for the Twisted Reflections of Self — Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    🖤 Author’s Note 🖤

    Each of these gospels was born from a silence I refused to keep. The 13 Mirrored Gospels is my reckoning with faith, identity, and the inherited wounds of expectation. These are not sermons for the saved — they are psalms for the broken, whispered through smoke and mirrorlight.

    Read carefully.

    The smoke is watching.

    A dimly lit gothic altar with candles, smoke, and shattered mirrors — representing “The 13 Mirrored Gospels” by Rowan Evans.
    Read carefully. The smoke is always watching.

    🖤 The 13 Mirrored Gospels 🖤
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    “There are no saints in these gospels—
    only shadows that learned to speak.”
    — Rowan Evans

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    I. The Gospel of Mirrors

    Step inside.
    Watch yourself rot in reverse.
    Every smile you wore as armor,
    now bleeding at the edges.
    The mirror never lied.
    You just kept asking the wrong questions.

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    II. The Gospel of Silence

    Not the silence of peace—
    the silence after impact.
    The quiet that follows
    when every scream is spent,
    and all that’s left
    is the echo of your own denial.

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    III. The Gospel of Golden Lies

    They dipped their cruelty in gold leaf
    and called it kindness.
    They said “light saves”
    while tightening the noose.
    Shine is not salvation.
    Shine is strategy.

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    IV. The Gospel of the Sainted Wound

    She told me pain makes you beautiful.
    So I made myself a masterpiece.
    Now they can’t look at me
    without flinching.

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    V. The Gospel of Velvet Ruin

    I dressed my rage in elegance—
    because pretty things bleed quieter.
    Because if I scream in silk,
    they call it poetry,
    not proof.

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    VI. The Gospel of the Haloed Knife

    They told me love was soft.
    So when I bled, I thought I was wrong.
    Turns out, some loves
    come serrated.
    Turns out, mine did too.

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    VII. The Gospel of the Unknown Reflection

    The mirror shows my face,
    but it isn’t me—
    just a shadow stitched from language,
    from names that never fit.

    They told me what to be:
    man, believer, saved—
    but I only felt the ache
    between those words.

    Now even silence
    flinches.

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    VIII. The Gospel of Smoke-Laced Psalms

    I wrote devotion in ash,
    but they wanted ink.
    So I choked on incense
    until my prayers tasted like
    what they’d believe.

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    IX. The Gospel of Unholy Softness

    I offered tenderness.
    They saw weakness.
    I offered truth.
    They called it unstable.
    So now I offer nothing
    but teeth.

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    X. The Gospel of Reverse Reverence

    I bowed to nothing—
    not out of pride,
    but protection.
    Every altar I’ve knelt before
    asked for a piece of me.
    I’ve run out of offerings.

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    XI. The Gospel of Misnamed Miracles

    They called my survival
    a phase.
    A scream for attention.
    But I was just trying
    to exist loud enough
    to feel real.

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    XII. The Gospel of Heretics and Honey

    I tasted joy once.
    Sweet. Brief.
    But it rotted faster than grief.
    I keep it in a jar now,
    like a dead bee.
    Just in case.

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    XIII. The Gospel of the Flame That Didn’t Save Me

    They said fire cleanses.
    But all it did
    was remind me
    what burning feels like
    from the inside.

    More Gospels, Psalms & Riddles

    The Gospel of Softness III: Thirteen Psalms for the Tender-Hearted

    13 Psalms of Falling: A Sapphic Confessional Litany of Softness & Sacred Ruin

    13 Riddles for the Starborn Child

    XIII Psalms for the Goddess in My Mouth

  • Incantation in Motion: A Darkly Intimate Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    A hymn to the way presence can become poetry, even in the cracks and shadows.

    Shadowy feminine figure unraveling into smoke and light, fragile yet powerful—evoking both intimacy and, unexpectedly, Spider-Man’s most tragic line.
    A body dissolves into shadow and light, fragile as smoke, holy as motion.
    Or, as Spider-Man put it: “Mr. Stark… I don’t feel so good.”

    Incantation in Motion
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    The way you move
    is poetry—

    a dark hymn I confess,
    spoken through cracked lips,

    a sacred pulse
    in the silence where shadows
    trace the shape of your name
    on my broken bones.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    Triple Poetic Devotion
    Three haunting voices, one pulse of devotion and desire. Rowan Evans, HxNightshade, and B.D. Nightshade explore pain, love, and surrender in minimalist, evocative verse.

    Shadowed Addiction
    A brief, intimate dive into desire, longing, and emotional darkness. Shadowed Addiction fuses minimalist expression with confessional intensity, weaving English and Tagalog for a sharp, personal resonance.

    Litany of Shelter
    A quiet vow in four lines: I may not stop the rain, but I can be your shelter.

  • 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