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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: legacy

  • Not a Whisper – A Poetic Declaration of Presence and Defiance | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Not a Whisper is a declaration of presence, defiance, and the choice to live loudly even in the face of despair. It is a celebration of vulnerability as strength, and a reminder that leaving a mark on the world—through words, actions, or simply by existing—is a radical act of courage.

    This piece is written for anyone who has ever felt like fading into silence. It is a call to blaze, to roar, and to claim your space unapologetically. Let it be a lantern in the dark, a spark for the weary, and a testament that even in our final moments, we can leave brilliance behind.

    Figure standing at the edge of a cliff at twilight, surrounded by intertwining shadows and light, symbolizing defiance and inner strength.
    “Not a whisper, but a roar—standing fearless at the edge of darkness and light.”

    Not a Whisper
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    For those who refuse to fade silently.

    In the pastel twilight where shadows entwine,
    I stand at the edge, where darkness and light align.
    Not with a whisper shall I slip from this realm,
    But with a scream, a bang—I take the helm.

    I want my exit to echo, a thunderous sound,
    A ripple of strength in the silence profound.
    With each word I write, may my spirit take flight,
    Leaving behind traces of shimmering light.

    For life is a canvas, painted in hues
    Of laughter and heartache, the joy and the blues.
    I won’t fade like the dusk, soft and subdued,
    But blaze like a comet, fierce and imbued.

    I’ll cast off the shadows that darken the skies,
    With vibrant explosions that shatter the lies.
    In the depths of despair, I wield my sharp pen
    To carve out a legacy that rises again.

    A testament bold, in the ink of my tears,
    A symphony sung through the echo of years.
    I forge in the fire my soul’s purest art,
    Uplifting the weary, igniting the heart.

    When I’m gone, let my laughter resound in the air,
    Like a wild, raging storm—untamed, rare.
    May my spirit linger, a beacon of grace,
    Shining through darkness, time’s cold embrace.

    I seek not to vanish, a ghost in the night,
    But to burst forth with brilliance, a brilliant delight.
    For in vulnerability, true power is found,
    In lifting each other, our spirits unbound.

    So, let me depart not in silence or fear,
    But in vibrant defiance, my purpose made clear.
    With a scream that ignites and a bang that reverberates,
    I leave behind light, as my heart resonates.

    For when shadows encroach and the world feels unfair,
    May my words be the lanterns, lighting the air.
    Not a whisper, but a roar, as I take my last breath,
    A legacy blooming, transcending even death.

    For more of my poetry, visit The Library of Ashes.

  • The Vigil of the First Son | Neo-Gothic Confessional Prose by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    ☽ Introduction ☾

    In every myth, there is a shadow cast by a cathedral’s ghost;
    in every son who claims that shadow, a prayer whispered in defiance.
    This is the confessional of a child born of ruin and rebellion—
    sworn not to brokenness, but to the fierce holiness of becoming.
    This is…

    Nighttime illustration of a masked vigilante standing on a cathedral roof, overlooking a cracked yet living city under moonlight; symbolizing hope within ruin.
    A sentinel between shadow and dawn — the First Son’s vigil burns quietly, but it burns still.

    ☽ The Vigil of the First Son ☾
    Prose by Rowan Evans

    I was not born from cathedral shadows—
    I fell from another height, beneath painted canvas and sawdust air,
    where faith meant catching and being caught.

    But the fall came anyway.
    And in the ruin, he found me—
    the Broken Saint, robed in mourning.
    He offered me a name forged from grief,
    and I took it, though my palms still smelled of flight and chalk.

    They call me heir, as if shadow is all I have inherited.
    But gods know, I am more:

    I have bled in these alleys, yes—
    but I have danced on rooftops, too,
    laughter spilling into the bruised dawn,
    a reminder that even vigil can be alive.

    He is the shadow.
    I am the light who learned to love the dark
    without letting it devour me.

    Sometimes guilt creeps in—
    that I can still love where he has walled himself off,
    that I can still smile where he only mourns.

    But hope is rebellion, too—
    a heresy against a city built on scars.

    Tonight, the moon crowns my brow in borrowed silver,
    and Blüdhaven breathes below—cracked, imperfect, alive.

    I watch from these heights:
    a sentinel, a son, still learning.

    I am not him.
    And gods, that is my salvation.

    ☽ Benediction ☾

    May the shadow teach you mercy.
    May your scars be the map to your salvation.
    And though the night will call,
    may your first vigil blaze bright enough to be seen from every dawn.

    🔗 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 — a confession of Gotham’s haunted martyr.
    The Vigil of the Clown Prince — a testament of madness, ruin, and marrow-deep defiance.
    The Vigil of the Twisted Harlequin — scars reborn as rebellion, laughter reclaimed.

    Each is a prayer, a confession, a testament carved in bruise, bone, and breath.
    May you find something of yourself between the shadows and the candlelight.

    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