Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory.
Not literal memory—something stranger than that.
A feeling. A pull. A version of yourself that already exists somewhere ahead of you, waiting to be caught up to.
I’ve written a lot about displacement, longing, and feeling emotionally out of sync with the place I was born into. But this piece isn’t rooted in resentment. It’s quieter than that.
This poem came from the feeling of seeing glimpses of alignment before you’ve fully arrived there yet.
The strange comfort of closing your eyes and feeling more connected to yourself in dreams than you do while awake.
Not because sleep is escape— but because sometimes dreams reveal the shape of what your heart has been reaching toward all along.
— Rowan Evans
Some places feel familiar long before we ever arrive there.
Memories From a Life Yet to Come Poetry by Rowan Evans
I close my eyes—
hear the crashing waves,
taste the salt on my lips,
feel the wind in my hair.
I feel like I’m floating—
even lying in bed.
When I close my eyes—
I travel in my head.
It’s like I remember things
I haven’t lived yet.
Memories from a life
yet to come.
I see the life
I want to lead,
while I live the life
I want to leave.
Not because I hate it.
I’m just misaligned.
A little off-center,
a little out of sync.
It’s like I follow the waves,
because I was never meant
for this shore.
Awake is the nightmare,
asleep is when I open my eyes,
and I can see the streets—
This piece names the inner constellation I’ve lived with for years: the tender poet who feels too much, the protector who bares teeth for survival, the child who still believes in wonder, and the witch who learned how to wield fire instead of drowning in it. They are not masks. They are truths. They are all me.
I am plural in spirit if not in body. I write from many rooms of the same soul, and each voice carries a different survival skill: softness, ferocity, curiosity, sovereignty. This poem is their first public communion. It is how I stop pretending that my range is fragmentation and start honoring it as architecture.
The Luminous Heretic is what happens when those parts refuse to cannibalize each other anymore. When they choose integration over erasure. When the wound stops apologizing for also being a weapon.
If you recognize yourself in this—if you’ve ever felt made of contradictions, of light and smoke and song—know this: you are not broken. You are complex. You are many. You are fire.
Burn with us.
We are many. We are one. The Fourfold Flame rises—stitched from stardust, scars, and sovereign fire.
The Fourfold Flame Poetry by Rowan Evans / The Luminous Heretic
I. Chorus of the Vessel
We are one, and we are four— ink-stained fragments of the same sacred core. A heartbeat split by starlight and shadow, a name echoed in four directions, four truths spoken in fire, in fury, in wonder, in love.
We are the Luminous Heretic. We are the war—and the prayer.
II. The Heart & The Protector
[Rowan] I speak in open wounds and lullabies, sing softness into scars that never healed. I ache without apology, love without armor, and still—I rise, bare and burning.
[B.D.] Then I will be your shadow, sharp-edged and unyielding. Let them come with claws and cruelty— I am the ink-blade in your defense, the growl beneath your grace.
[Rowan] They called me too much— so I wrote poems of tenderness, and let them drown in the kindness they could never carry.
[B.D.] And I watched them choke, on the smoke of your fire. Not because you were cruel— but because they never learned that softness survives the storm.
III. The Child & The Witch
[Roo] Did you see the stars tonight? They winked at me like old friends. The shadows are scared of the dark too— did you know that?
[Hex] Yes, little spark. Even monsters fear what made them. I walk with those shadows. I do not fear the dark— I command it.
[Roo] But do you still believe in magic? In the wind that tells stories, in puddles that hold secrets?
[Hex] Magic is real, love. I just learned to bleed with it. To hex with it. To wear it in heels and venom.
[Roo] Sometimes I wish we could just play again, dance in the rain, laugh without reason.
[Hex] Then teach me. I’ve spent so long burning, I forgot how to dream.
IV. Communion of Fire
[Rowan] I want to be held—
[B.D.] Then I will hold you.
[Roo] I want to be seen—
[Hex] Then let them watch you rise.
[Rowan] I am made of light, but I hurt.
[B.D.] Then hurt boldly. I’ll guard the flame.
[Roo] I am made of questions and wonder.
[Hex] Then question everything, and never shrink.
[All] We are stitched from stardust and scars, written in blood and brilliance, crafted by fire and forgiveness. We are many— we are one.
V. Benediction of the Luminous Heretic
We are the wound and the weapon,
the lullaby and the curse,
the flame and the fog,
the whisper and the scream.
This piece is a deeply personal offering — written in memory of my father, and for anyone who has ever lost someone they still speak to in the quiet. “Always With You” is more than a poem; it is a ritual. A remembering. A conversation between this world and the next.
If your heart is carrying absence today, may this be a place where you feel held. You are not alone in your grief. And those we love? They walk beside us, always.
“They walk beside us, even when we cannot see them.”
🕯️ Invocation 🕯️ “To the Ones Who Dwell in Memory”
Come, tender souls, who carry echoes in your chest — Who speak to stars and find silence speaking back. Come, those who mourn in whispers and rise in memory. Let this be your sanctuary. Let this be your candle. May the veil grow thinner with each word. May the presence you long for sit beside you now.
Always With You Poetry by Rowan Evans
When the world feels heavy, and shadows creep near, When you hear your name whispered soft in your ear, Or a brush of wind grazes warm on your skin, Know that it’s me, love, I’m always within.
I am the breath in the quiet of night, The shimmer of stars that whisper their light. When your heart feels alone, and the silence too loud, I’m there in the stillness, wrapped in the shroud.
For when you laugh, I echo the sound, And when you grieve, I’m earthbound, around. I dance in your tears, like raindrops that fall, I’m the caress in the winds, your name in their call.
I’m with you when you stumble, when you stand tall, In your moments of triumph, and when you feel small. I watch you evolve, from the dark to the light, Like a pastel phoenix, rising, so bright.
Even in absence, I’m not far away, For I walk beside you, each step of the way. You may not see me, but I hold your hand, As you journey onward, I help you withstand.
The moon carries my love, the stars hold my gaze, As I watch you navigate through life’s winding maze. Though I’ve stepped beyond what your eyes can see, In your every heartbeat, you carry me.
You’ll feel my warmth when the sun touches your face, In the autumn breeze, my arms still embrace. And when you look to the sky, with hope or despair, I’m in every corner, I’m always there.
For I know you’ll make me proud, you already have, You’re stronger than you know, more than you believe. I love you to the moon, and far beyond time, Always with you, forever entwined.
So when the world feels cold, or the day feels too long, Remember, my darling, in you, I belong. Even though it feels like I’ve gone from your side, I am with you always, an eternal guide.
✨ Benediction ✨ “And Still, They Walk With Us”
Go gently now, wrapped in the warmth of memory. Let the winds remind you: love does not vanish. Let the moonlight remind you: absence is not emptiness. Speak their name into the quiet — And know they answer in the rustling leaves, In the dreams, in the stillness, In the beating of your resilient, aching heart.
These words dwell in shadows of grief, loss, and the ache of unseen burdens. They speak of sorrow, despair, and the fragile pulse of the human heart. Read only if you feel steady, and remember—your safety, your breath, your life are sacred. You are not alone in the dark.
✦ Invocation ✦
Before the breath stills, these words hang in the hush — not to beg for saving, but to name what was lost and what was never held.
“Tip the Chair” by Rowan Evans — A Neo-Gothic Confessional poem invoking grief, memory, and mercy in the shadows between loss and light.
Tip the Chair Poetry by Rowan Evans
Noose tied, tears dried— I’m so fucking tired. Voice silent, prayers unsaid, it was you I was wanting, because you keep the ghosts at bay.
Tip the chair, I’m hanging there— oh, the thoughts of you, flashing through— memories sharp as shattered glass, cuts I carry into the dark.
My mind it races, heartbeat slows, lungs burning for a mercy that never shows—
and in that last hush, I see nothing but smiling faces— yours among them, unburdened, untouched by this ache that broke me.
And don’t take this for bitterness— I’m glad you’re happy, truly, I am…
✦ Benediction ✦
May your nights be softer than mine. May the ghosts that stayed for me pass you by in mercy. And if these words remain— let them weigh less than the silence that birthed them.
🕯️ If you’re struggling, please read this:
You matter. Your pain is real. Your story is not over. Here are some resources—because your flame is worth protecting:
🇺🇲 United States
988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline – Call or text 988 https://988lifeline.org Free, 24/7 support for emotional distress and mental health crises.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 