This poem is a reflection on devotion, longing, and the quiet strength of love that stretches across distance. Using the imagery of a sunflower—rooted yet reaching, bending yet unbroken—I explore the way our hearts orient themselves toward those who bring light into our lives. It’s a meditation on hope, patience, and the silent pull of someone who becomes our constant, our compass, and our sunlight.
Sunflower Eyes — rooted in hope, reaching for the light, a meditation on love and devotion.
Sunflower Eyes Poetry by Rowan Evans
Like a sunflower,
always searching for golden rays.
My eyes move, always,
in search of your face.
Even in the quiet moments,
when petals fold in sleep,
my gaze drifts across the distance,
finding you in the small sparks
that linger at the edges of the world.
My roots sink deep,
anchored in the soil of memory and hope,
but my head, my heart,
will always sway toward you,
bending and bowing, yet never breaking.
I yearn for the warmth
that only your presence gives,
each glance a sunbeam
piercing through the shadowed field
where I sometimes forget my own strength.
Seasons shift and skies fade,
but I follow the orbit of your light,
spinning in silent devotion,
even when the sun hides behind clouds.
I bloom in the hope of your eyes,
and in the quiet ache of waiting,
I stretch ever upward,
a golden blaze against the sky—
your face, my sunlight,
my constant, my compass,
my forever.
A moment of longing, a tide that has left me… Sometimes absence is a presence all its own. This short piece reflects the ache of missing someone, of feeling incomplete in empty spaces.
“Even in the quietest rooms, absence has a weight. ‘Miss na siya’ captures that feeling.”
Miss na Siya Poetry by Rowan Evans
Miss na siya— like a fish that can’t breathe without its sea. Every empty room feels like the tide has left me.
These poems were originally written last December, (polished recently) inspired by the quiet magic, longing, and devotion that the season brings. They are not about presents, decorations, or snow—but about the ways we hold someone in our heart, wish for their happiness, and cherish the moments that make life feel alive.
Each piece is a reflection of care, yearning, and the small miracles we find in connection.
— Rowan Evans
A quiet moment of winter devotion, captured in ink and candlelight.
Christmas Devotion: Four Winter Love Poems by Rowan Evans
A wish written in devotion, hoping for someone else’s joy.
Dear Santa Poetry by Rowan Evans
Dear Santa,
I ask for little this year—
just her happiness, wrapped in light,
a genuine smile to chase away the shadows
that cloud her mornings.
I wish for her heart to be at ease,
for the weight to lift,
like snowflakes melting in spring’s first breath,
for every breath she takes
to feel lighter,
every moment she lives
to be worth more than gold.
I don’t need anything for myself—
nothing for me,
no ribbons or bows,
just give her everything she could ever dream,
every joy,
every wish fulfilled
with the grace of starlight.
For she is my world,
though she may never know
the depths of how much she means—
I’ll be there,
steadfast and true,
until the end,
if she’ll have me.
And maybe, just maybe,
leave me beneath her tree,
so I might be the reason for her smile this season—
the warmth beneath her winter,
the spark that lights her soul.
Yours, in silent devotion,
Rowan
Another letter, another wish — this time for love to be received.
Another Letter to Santa Poetry by Rowan Evans
Dear Santa,
I wrote with care, not for toys or treasures rare, but for her smile, so warm and bright, to light her world on Christmas night.
I asked for joy to fill her days, for peace to guide her gentle ways. For every wish she dares to dream, to come alive like a starlit gleam.
She deserves the very best, a love that soars, a heart at rest. So I penned my list with her in mind, hoping your magic would be kind.
And then, with courage, I did plea, “Santa, could you leave me under her tree? Wrap me in ribbons, tied with care, so I could be the gift waiting there.”
For all I want this Christmas Eve, is to hold her close, to make her believe, that love is a gift, steady and true, and all I wish for… is to give it to her.
The moment the season’s magic returns through love.
Christmas Magic Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’m searching for the magic, the season’s glow, the joy, the wonder I used to know. Once, Christmas sparkled, a brilliant light, but now it feels distant, out of sight.
I long for that spirit, for warmth and cheer, to feel the magic, to know it’s near. But it slips through my fingers, each passing year, and I can’t help but wonder, why it disappears.
The closest I’ve come, the moment so true, was when I met you, and it all felt new. Suddenly, it was easy, my smile found its place, joy rushed in, lighting up my face.
In your presence, I felt the shift, the weight of the world began to lift. You gave me back that light I’d lost, without even knowing the cost.
You opened my eyes, made me see, that the magic I longed for was inside of me. It wasn’t the holidays, or the gifts we give— it was you, who set me free.
Where winter breath meets winter magic — a kiss waiting to happen.
Under the Mistletoe Poetry by Rowan Evans
Meet me there, beneath the green and white, where winter whispers and hearts ignite. A sprig of magic hung above, a symbol of fate, a kiss of love.
Let our worlds entwine, two threads in a weave, a story unfolding on this frosted eve. I’ll become yours, and you’ll become mine, our souls aligning, frozen in time.
The crowd fades away, a blur of the cold, it’s only us now, a tale to be told. Eyes locked in silence, a spark starts to grow, a fire kindled under the mistletoe.
Take my hands, let your fingers trace, the contours of love etched on my face. Kiss me slow, with the world standing still, a moment suspended, a wish fulfilled.
No one else matters, they’re shadows at best, for here, with you, my heart finds its rest. So meet me there, where our hearts will know, the magic that lives under the mistletoe.
Under My Skin is a celebration of the magnetic, uncontainable energy that captivates and lingers. It’s about someone who burrows into your bones, ignites your imagination, and refuses to be tamed—someone whose presence is both a spell and a fire. This poem honors that intoxicating pull, the way desire can intertwine with admiration, and the beauty of surrendering to a force that refuses to be ignored.
A witchy, neo-gothic muse — the energy that slips under the skin and refuses to let go.
Under My Skin Poetry by Rowan Evans
She’s got that, witchy ‘n’ bitchy energy— I love that.
She hexes me when she texts me— in the best way.
She is— under my skin, in my lungs, deep within the marrow, burrowed in my brain.
My heart? (Thump-thump) It beats for her. My mind? It dreams of her the moment my eyes close.
She lingers— a spell I never want broken, a fire I never want tamed.
If you want to see the full range of what I write, and discover the full breadth of my poetry in The Library of Ashes—an archive of ink-stained devotion, dark petals, and threshold poems that linger long after the last candle flickers.Visit The Library of Ashes →
Letters Never Sent was written for my muse—the one who lives at the center of my chest. This poem explores the sacred ache of devotion, the letters I could never send, and the reverent longing of a love expressed quietly, yet fiercely. It will be featured in my upcoming collection Unsent: Letters Never Sent, a series that dives into hidden emotions, whispered confessions, and the intimate corners of the heart. Consider this a little preview of what’s to come.
By candlelight, words take form—letters never sent, devotion whispered in shadows.
Letters Never Sent Poetry by Rowan Evans
By candlelight, my soul unwinds. I spill you out in cursive sighs, velvet ink on virgin page— a love I bury, night by night.
You smile—as if the stars were born for you— and I pretend not to combust. The first lines I write—you’ll never see. In shadowed corners, I place my trust.
Each line a secret sin, a hymn I cannot begin. You will never read these lines of mine, but I breathe them in your name.
These are the letters never sent, whispers carved in black lament. Every word drips with longing, deep, a hunger I am condemned to keep. I bleed in prose, I bend, I dream— but I will not break.
Your voice haunts my chest like a ghost, a lullaby I cannot forget. You speak of love, but not of me; still, I write you with reverent regret.
I watch you fall for another, and swallow the storm inside. It is not your fault that I live like this— a poet forced to always hide.
I linger in the seams of every silent dream. You will never know the wars I wage just to keep our balance clean.
These are the letters never sent, devotions cloaked in discontent. A reverent ache I cannot erase— to love you from my sacred, secret place. I write to you, my only friend, and never send.
If you ever find them— scattered in the ruins of my mind— know that every page was a prayer to keep your heart entwined with mine. But I will never cross that line; I would rather burn than see you cry.
These are the letters never sent, my silent songs, my sacrament. A worship woven into rhyme, unclaimed, untouched, outside of time. Forever yours— my soul is spent, in letters never sent.
The Unsent Letters
[Unsent: Letters to My Muse] Re-introducing my first poetry collection, Unsent: Letters to My Muse—a series of confessional, intimate letters written to the Muse who inspires me. Vulnerability is sacred, longing is a language of fire and shadow, and love takes the shape of unsent words.
[Ordinary Heart, Extraordinary You] “Ordinary Heart, Extraordinary You” is a poem of gentle devotion by Rowan Evans — a meditation on quiet love, courage born from tenderness, and finding beauty in ordinary moments shared with an extraordinary soul.
[The Fear of No Fear at All] A quiet reflection on the most terrifying kind of peace — the kind that comes when love no longer hurts. The Fear of No Fear at All explores the uneasy beauty of emotional safety and the tremor that comes with realizing you are finally allowed to rest.
[The Moment I Realized (Under Manila’s Setting Sun)] A vignette born from a dream — a confession whispered beneath Manila’s dying sun. The Moment I Realized (Under Manila’s Setting Sun) captures the instant love becomes undeniable, when truth spills unbidden and changes everything.
[I Love You (Enough to Go Silent)] A vow written in ink and silence — a confession of love so deep it would sacrifice its own voice to spare another’s tears. “I Love You (Enough to Go Silent)” is a Neo-Gothic devotion from Rowan Evans, where the act of not speaking becomes the loudest declaration of love. (Read the other two vows linked in this post.)
This poem includes lines in Tagalog, a language I am currently learning. I am not from the Philippines, but I have a deep admiration for Filipino culture and the warmth of its people. I sometimes weave Tagalog into my poetry as a way to practice and retain what I’m learning, exploring how the language can carry emotion and rhythm. Translations are provided beneath the Tagalog lines for readers who do not speak the language.
The poem is an ode to connection, love, and the binding power of words across languages.
“Binding souls across languages and hearts, through words that hold us together.”
The Glue That Binds Poetry by Rowan Evans
Words of love on my tongue, they dance, they fall, A symphony of whispers that rise, then call. But my mind, it runs, relentless, untrue, And it always runs back to you.
Sa labirinto ng aking mga pira-pirasong iniisip, (In the labyrinth of my scattered thoughts,) Ikaw ang sinulid na nag-uugnay, ang nagbubuklod. (You are the thread that ties, the one that knots.) A binding force, a gentle embrace, You hold the pieces of my scattered grace.
Ikaw ang pandikit na nagbubuklod sa aking wasak na isipan. (You’re the glue that binds my fractured mind.) The perfect muse, one of a kind. In every thought, you softly reside, Whispering secrets I can no longer hide.
Your presence paints, in vivid hues, A canvas of words where beauty brews. I find new verses, like rivers they flow, Crafting hymns where love and longing grow.
Mas maganda pa kaysa sinumang banal na kasulatan, (More beautiful than any holy scripture,) Mas dalisay kaysa anghel na umaawit, mas sagana. (More pure than angels singing, richer.) Sa aking puso, muling isinulat mo ang mga awit. (In my heart, you write the songs anew.) And I realize: every word, every line, leads me back to you.
If you are moved by this poem, you may also explore these works, where yearning, exile, and the beauty of culture intertwine:
Escape & Longing | Tropical Dreams & Distant Shores Step into the world of yearning and distant horizons. Rowan Evans explores the pull of faraway shores, the desire to breathe free, and the quiet hope of finding a home beyond the known.
Slim & Shady VIII | Exile & Echoes In Exile & Echoes, the eighth installment of the Slim & Shady series, Rowan Evans explores the haunted silence of exile and the reverberations of memory. A confessional piece that balances shadow, identity, and ruin within the framework of Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.
In Tongues & Travels | A Celebration of Language & Culture A reflection on the beauty of language and culture, and the devotion of witnessing the world with reverence and curiosity. (A reflective piece exploring the beauty of language and cultural connection—perfectly aligned with the Tagalog lines woven into The Glue That Binds.)
Drifting Without Roots | A Poem on Cultural Identity & Longing A confessional poem exploring envy of cultural heritage, the ache of disconnection, and the search for belonging in a fractured identity.
Sometimes the world feels too heavy to bear, and the soul begins to dream of places it has never touched. Two paths emerge—one of quiet surrender, the other of yearning flight. These pieces explore that journey: the weight of what we leave behind, and the promise of somewhere beyond the horizon.
Longing for distant shores, finding peace beyond what I’ve known.
Escape Route Poetry by Rowan Evans
I want to step off this soil, feel its weight fade from my bones, like a chain I never asked for, a history I never owned.
I long for skies not heavy with judgment, for oceans that don’t pull me under, to breathe air not tainted with promises that leave the soul shattered, like glass beneath tired feet.
I would trade the land of endless noise, the echoes of hollow dreams, for silence— for the quiet of somewhere far, where the world doesn’t scream but whispers, and I can finally exhale.
Somewhere else, where home isn’t built on brokenness, where freedom isn’t borrowed but earned.
Tropical Longing Poetry by Rowan Evans
I wake up each day, mind focused on the journey ahead— I’m putting plans in motion, to cross oceans, to leave behind this land of plenty, where many have none. I long for the land of white sand beaches and palm trees, I long for a tropical sun.
Life upon a different shore, it’s calling me. And I think about it longingly. Get me out of here, get me to where my heart feels at peace. Instead of here, where I feel like I’m pulling myself in two, stretched thin between what is and what could be— like waves crashing against jagged rocks, each one breaking off a piece of me.
The Philippines— a dream painted in shades of emerald and gold, the promise of solace in the whisper of the sea. But here, the air is heavy, clouds hang low with burdens of the past, while I yearn for a sky unshackled, where the horizon stretches far beyond the limits of what I know.
Palm trees sway like dancers, and the sun burns bright, calling me to walk barefoot, where my soul can feel the sand, and my heart can finally breathe. But for now, I’m tethered to this place, this world where the weight is felt with every step I take.
Still, I hold onto the dream, the image of an island beyond the mist— where peace resides, and I can shed the pull of this dual life, and rest beneath the warmth of the tropical sky.
Double-Feature Outro
And so we leave, if only in words—for a moment, we escape the weight of the world. We walk toward distant shores, toward air untainted and skies unbound, carrying pieces of ourselves we thought were lost. Between the tethered and the free, we find the space to breathe, to dream, to simply be.
I have been struggling with my lack of cultural identity for a long time. Growing up in the United States, I was told it was a “melting pot,” but it never felt that way. Instead, it seemed like people were forced to abandon their heritage in order to fit into an identity that doesn’t exist. When I ask what “American culture” is, the answers I hear are hamburgers, hot dogs, the 4th of July, and the military. None of that feels like culture to me—only consumerism and violence.
I envy those who have songs, dances, rituals, languages, and stories passed down through generations. I don’t want to take anyone else’s story. I only want to feel the presence of my own. But too often I feel like a ghost wandering through borrowed traditions, searching for a home that doesn’t exist.
This poem is my confession of that ache.
— Rowan Evans
“Searching for roots in the fog of identity.”
Invocation
Come closer, reader— into the hollow where heritage should dwell. Hear the echo of silence, the yearning for roots that never took hold. Witness the ache of a soul adrift in a country that mistook conquest for culture, violence for pride. Step gently— this confession is not just grief, but a longing for home that has no name.
Inheritance of Nothing Poetry by Rowan Evans
I envy the ones whose blood carries stories— whose tongues remember what their ancestors sang in the shadow of temples, at the mouth of rivers.
I watch their rituals unfold, candles passed from hand to hand, dances older than empires, words carved in a language I will never taste. And I ache— not because they have it, but because I don’t.
What was left to me? Fast food wrapped in plastic, holidays gutted of holiness, flags worshipped instead of gods. I was taught to pledge allegiance to violence, to wars I never wanted, to victories built on graves.
My culture is gunfire. My anthem is grief. My inheritance— silence where a song should be.
I drift between borrowed myths, a pilgrim without a shrine, longing for a history that does not dissolve into slogans, or rot under the weight of conquest and forgetting.
I do not want to steal another’s story. I only want to touch my own— to feel it burn in my chest, to know the names of my dead and what they carried for me.
Instead, I stand at the threshold, watching others feast at a table laden with memory and meaning, while I starve on scraps of hamburgers and hot dogs— a parody of belonging.
Tell me, how do I rise from soil that has no roots? How do I call myself home when my home was built on erasure?
Benediction
May those who carry deep roots cherish them with reverence. May those who wander rootless know they are not alone in the ache. And may we who inherit silence still find ways to sing— to build new rituals from longing, to craft belonging from the ruins.
If you would like to check out more of my work, you can find it here… The Library of Ashes
Envy gnaws at the soul. This sonnet reveals the hollow ache of comparison and the corrosive desire for what is not yours.
Envy – the sixth of the 7 Deadly Sonnets by Rowan Evans, exploring jealousy and longing.
7 Deadly Sonnets Envy
I watch with eyes as green as ivy’s weave, The fruits that others savor, ripe and sweet, Each laugh, each joy, a cut that makes me grieve, For all I lack, as bitterness repeats.
Their lives unfold, like tales I’ll never know, Each cherished dream, each whispered, stolen kiss, A golden world, untouched by sorrow’s blow, While envy burns, a wound that can’t resist.
In silent suffering, I crave their grace, To wear their smiles, to walk in others’ skin, Yet envy scours all beauty from my face, And leaves me hollowed, poisoned deep within.
In wanting what is theirs, I lose what’s mine, A haunted shade, in envy’s twisted shrine.
The 7 Deadly Sonnets
I. Lust My pulse quickens at each whispered breath, desires draping the air like silken chains. ‘Lust,’ the first of the 7 Deadly Sonnets, explores the fevered, consuming hunger that blurs the lines between passion and peril.
II. Gluttony ‘Gluttony’ devours more than food—it consumes the soul. The second of the 7 Deadly Sonnets explores endless craving, the hunger for excess, and the void it leaves behind.
III. Greed ‘Greed’ reveals the hunger that is never sated—the clutching hands, the endless thirst for more, and the hollowness left behind. The third of the 7 Deadly Sonnets.
IV. Sloth ‘Sloth’ captures the quiet paralysis of apathy, the weight of inaction, and the suffocating stillness that can consume the soul. The fourth of the 7 Deadly Sonnets.
V. Wrath ‘Wrath’ burns with uncontrollable fury, the tempest of anger that devours and consumes. The fifth of the 7 Deadly Sonnets, exploring the raw power of vengeance.
There is a strange sanctity in sleep—the quiet surrender where worlds fold into each other, where hearts separated by oceans can meet in the hush of night. This piece is a liturgy for those encounters, the nightly pilgrimages to a shared dreamscape. In this realm, distance dissolves, and the pulse of longing becomes the rhythm of devotion. Let these words be a bridge between the waking world and the sanctuary of dreams.
Nocturnal Crossing – a neo-gothic exploration of love, longing, and dream-bound devotion by Rowan Evans.
✦ Invocation ✦
Come, children of moonlight and tide, step softly into the hours where reality frays, where the air tastes of salt and shadow, and silver fingers of night brush your skin. Let the night cradle you, its soft hum and velvet rustle weaving paths across oceans, drawing us together beneath stars that shimmer like cold fire. Breathe with me the brine-wet air, feel the pull of another soul even when miles of water shimmer between us, and hear the lull of waves like whispered secrets.
Nocturnal Crossing Poetry by Rowan Evans
I slip past the clock, past the walls of day, where moonlight drips like ink over silvered bay, and salt tangs the air, heavy on my tongue. The ocean waits, a vast, cold divide, but nightly I sail where your shadows hide, and the hush hums softly like a ghostly song.
In waking hours, the tide keeps you away, distance carved like a cathedral of gray. Yet sleep is a bridge, a haunted parade, where fog curls softly, damp and scented with brine, and darkness sways, a slow, breathing veil.
Your voice drifts through the chambered night, a ghostly hymn, pale lanterns in flight. I reach for the echo of your trembling hands, tide-bound in life, yet together we stand, fingertips brushing the mist like feathers of shadow.
The stars spin slow, like dancers in lace, tracing the curve of your dream-lit face. Every sigh a hymn, every blink a key, unlocking the hours where only you meet me, the night humming faintly under our tethered breaths.
Our bodies unmade, yet memory sings, the hush of your breath, the tilt of your wings. Velvet tides pull us under, pull us near, currents of shadow whispering that you’re here, the brine of your absence sweet on my lips.
Every night, I dive through the velvet seam, where shadows and saltwater merge in a dream. The moon is a lantern, the sky a cathedral, and I cross the waves to your phantom, ethereal, hearing the distant crackle of star-fire above.
The stars trace your face like ink on my skin, every sigh a prayer, every blink a sin. And when I awake, the ocean roars, its briny scent heavy in the morning air, but in dreams, I hold you on moonlit shores.
I wait for the night with fevered eyes, for the hush of your laughter, the drift of skies, the faint taste of salt and shadow on my tongue. Though oceans are cruel and daylight steals, in dreams, I am yours, and the dark reveals.
✦ Benediction ✦
May your dreams carry you gently across the seas, where longing dissolves into the hush of night, and the cool press of moonlight guides your steps. May the scent of salt and the brush of shadow lead you to the soul you seek, and when the sun awakens the world, may you rest in the quiet warmth of remembered touch, the hush of tides still echoing in your chest, knowing that in the sacred hours you are never truly apart, and the pulse of devotion lingers on your skin.
Journey into the Hexverse
If the hush of night lingers with you, if the pulse of devotion and quiet longing still hums in your chest, wander further into these chambers of ink and flame:
To Be Near Your Flame | Rowan Evans A haunting meditation on love, longing, and the quiet courage of staying close to the one who sets your heart ablaze. Includes a benediction for connection and devotion.
Penguin Pebbling | Roo the Poet A delicate, heartwarming poem celebrating the small treasures of love and the quiet moments that linger in our hearts.
Litany of Shelter | Rowan Evans A quiet vow in four lines: I may not stop the rain, but I can be your shelter.
13 Riddles for the Starborn Child | Roo the Poet These 13 moonlit riddles are not meant to be solved, but to gently unravel you. Roo the Poet—the child of my mythos—wanders barefoot through dreams, gathering starlight and scattering questions like wildflower seeds.
Step lightly. Let the words fold around you. Let them hold you as the night holds us all.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 