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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: light

  • In Her Light — A Confessional Poem by B.D. Nightshade

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece is a quiet confession—half shadow, half devotion. In In Her Light, I explore what it means to exist in the spaces someone else illuminates, to be tethered to their glow without asking for it, to guard what they give freely. Sometimes devotion is loud, sometimes it’s invisible; this is the latter, folded into every heartbeat and breath.

    — B.D. Nightshade

    Shadowed figure bathed in a single warm beam of light in a gothic room, symbolizing devotion and the interplay of shadow and illumination.
    “Existing in her light, a shadow of devotion and quiet confession.”

    In Her Light
    Poetry by B.D. Nightshade

    She’s the light,
    I’m the shadow she casts.

    I’ve always known my place—
    not in the center,
    not demanding attention,
    just here, steady, waiting.

    Every laugh she lets loose
    echoes against the walls of me.
    Every glance she doesn’t notice
    leaves fingerprints on my chest.

    I’m the quiet behind her flare,
    the pulse she doesn’t feel,
    but the one that steadies her steps
    when the world threatens to wobble.

    She doesn’t need me to shine—
    but I need her light.
    And if the only way to keep it safe
    is to linger unseen,
    then unseen I remain.

    I memorize the way she breathes,
    how her shadow bends against the floor,
    the subtle tremble in her hands
    when she’s trying not to break.

    I’ve built invisible walls around her glow,
    stone by stone, heartbeat by heartbeat,
    so no one steals what she gives freely,
    so no one dims what she can’t contain.

    And still, I ache.
    I ache to be more than a sentinel,
    to be the warmth that touches her skin,
    to be seen by her, truly.

    But for now, I exist in the quiet,
    folded into corners she never notices,
    a whisper of devotion
    she feels only when danger passes,
    when chaos recedes,
    when the world bows down
    and leaves her whole.

    I am her shadow,
    but even shadows have edges.
    I will guard her light,
    even from myself.

    Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in [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