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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: longing

  • My Nightmare | A Poem About Love, Distance, Hope, and Kintsugi

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some nightmares aren’t about monsters.

    Sometimes the nightmare is waking up and realizing that the person you want beside you is standing beneath a completely different sky.

    My Nightmare comes from that place—the uneasy space between memory and hope, between what once felt shared and what now feels impossibly far away. It is a poem about distance, but not only the physical kind. There is distance between perspectives, between hearts, between the lives we imagine and the lives we are actually living.

    Still, even nightmares have endings.

    Sometimes you wake up before they become permanent.

    And sometimes, even while dreaming, you can still see a little gold threaded through the cracks.

    — Rowan Evans

    Two distant figures stand on separate shores beneath different moons, connected across the dark ocean by faint golden and platinum threads.
    Two shores. Two skies. One horizon—and enough gold left to believe they might meet there.

    My Nightmare
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    This is my nightmare.

    You and I across the distance,
    the view that we see is different—
    your moon from my sky
    is missing—
    the sun no longer shines,
    it’s dimming—

    I don’t see the spark anymore—
    don’t see the light in the dark anymore.
    What do I even I write for?
    I lost my purpose—think I did it on purpose,
    it’s like I can’t rhyme anymore,
    no clock, no watch, can’t tell time anymore.

    This is my nightmare.

    You and I across the distance,
    the view that we see is different—
    my moon is sickly pale,
    but yours seems fine though—
    the sun doesn’t provide light,
    it’s gotten real low—

    in times before, this is when
    I would Kintsugi the heart—
    but there’s not much heart left,
    it’s all gold—soft metal,
    softer soul—stayed warm,
    when the world grew cold.

    This is my nightmare.

    You and I across the distance,
    the view that we see is different—
    when we used to be,
    two pieces the puzzle
    was missing—
    the sun in the sky was fine,
    but it dimmed in our shine—

    I’ve spent time doing Kintsugi
    on your heart too—it was hard not to,
    gold and platinum weaved through—
    I really did see you, flaws and all—
    and all I saw was a gift from God.

    I still don’t think—
    I was wrong.

    But that was my nightmare…

    You and I across the distance,
    the view that we saw was different—
    but I still see the gold threads that connect,
    the platinum hope on the horizon,
    that one day the distance will close—
    and we’ll walk the same shore,
    it won’t be—

    mine and yours.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Dreaming Wrong]
    A familiar dream becomes unsettling when the ocean becomes a pond, the tide disappears, the moon loses its reflection, and nothing feels quite like it belongs. Dreaming Wrong explores the uncanny feeling of finding yourself inside a dream that looks familiar—but feels like someone else’s.

    [Poet’s Curse]
    Poet’s Curse explores the painful side of falling too deeply: giving pieces of yourself away freely, taking accountability for your own heartbreak, and realizing that learning to let go can be harder than learning to love.

    [Beach to Beach]
    A dream becomes a journey between familiar shores and unfamiliar cities in Beach to Beach (How I Get There), a poem about imagined travel, ocean crossings, longing, and the places we hope to someday reach while awake.

    [Where the Metaphors Lead]
    Some truths are easier to write than they are to say aloud. “Where the Metaphors Lead” explores the quiet space between dreams, confession, and the courage it takes to let another person know how deeply they’ve become woven into your inner world.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Undead Symphony (Remix) — A Poem About Apathy, Empathy & Emotional Isolation

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some poems don’t need to be abandoned when we outgrow the person who originally wrote them.

    Sometimes they need to be revisited.

    Undead Symphony (Remix) returns to a poem I originally wrote on June 13, 2024. The original was written from a place I understood intimately: feeling perpetually misplaced, overlooked, and emotionally exhausted while still carrying an enormous capacity for empathy underneath the numbness.

    The title came from that contradiction.

    An undead thing is neither fully alive nor truly dead. A symphony, meanwhile, is full of movement, emotion, tension, and sound. Put those ideas together and you get something that feels very close to the emotional state I was trying to describe: a person who can feel deeply while simultaneously becoming distant from the world around them.

    That contradiction is still here in 2026.

    What changed is the way I approach it.

    The remix gives the poem more room to breathe. I broke apart lines that had previously been compressed together, allowing certain thoughts to linger rather than rushing past them. I also sharpened some of the imagery and cadence, particularly around the relationship between solitude, apathy, and empathy.

    The original poem said what I was feeling.

    The remix feels more like I understand why I was saying it.

    And that distinction matters.

    I have spent a lot of time in my writing exploring darkness—not because darkness is all I have, but because I have always been fascinated by the strange things that can survive inside it. Undead Symphony is one of those pieces.

    Apathy and empathy shouldn’t fit together.

    Yet somehow, they do.

    One protects the heart by making the world feel distant.

    The other keeps reaching toward it anyway.

    That tension is the symphony.

    The speaker may feel undead, but the music never actually stops.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure sits beneath a moonlit window as ghostly music and shadows surround a small warm light.
    Somewhere between apathy and empathy, something inside me keeps making music.

    Undead Symphony (Remix)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans
    [written on July 23, 2026]

    It was always the wrong place,
    wrong time—

    I was always second best,
    never first place—

    Never the one to win the race,
    I was always the one they laughed at,
    never with—

    always the one that
    when they were gone—

    never missed.

    So I grew cold and distant
    like far-off summer nights,
    yearned for on cold winter mornings.

    And sometimes—

    it still feels hard to breathe,
    like a shadow in the light,
    fading beneath.

    I never was one for faith,
    I never believed,
    no thoughts and no prayers—

    because why should anybody care?

    In a crowd I felt alone,
    a silent voice,
    an empty phone.

    It’s apathy—
    and I pair it with my empathy.
    An odd dance of light and dark,
    within me.

    It’s beauty in the darkness,
    an undead symphony.

    But still—I dream of a place,
    where I’m more than just a face.
    A spark in the night,
    a fleeting glimpse
    of warmth in the cold,
    and strength in the struggle.

    I remember moments—
    fleeting and rare,
    of laughter shared,
    of someone who cared.

    Brief as they were,
    they lit up my sky,

    A reminder that even shadows can try.

    Yet—
    I return to the solitude I know,
    where apathy is my only show.

    But my empathy,
    a hidden grace—

    whispers of a longing for a different place.

    It’s a contradiction,
    a twisted art—
    to feel so much,
    with a guarded heart.

    An undead symphony,
    a haunting tune—

    a dance of shadows beneath the moon.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Fallen Angel’s Reckoning (Remix)]
    Fallen Angel’s Reckoning (Remix) revisits a 2024 poem about heartbreak, broken promises, and falling from an imagined heaven, transforming its original ending into a darker meditation on resilience, self-reclamation, and learning to fly with broken wings.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Beach to Beach (How I Get There) — A Dream of Ocean, Travel & Longing

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Beach to Beach (How I Get There) is a small exploration of the strange geography of dreams—specifically, the way my mind seems to create its own routes between familiar places and places I’ve never physically experienced.

    I’ve written before about beaches, shorelines, the ocean, moonlight, and the city streets I encounter in my dreams. This piece connects those recurring images into something almost like a map: I leave one shore, cross the imagined sea, arrive somewhere unfamiliar, and let the dream carry me from there.

    There’s also something hopeful underneath the surrealism. These places may exist in my dreams now, but part of me wants to make that journey while awake—to eventually cross those real distances and stand on those unfamiliar shores for myself.

    Sometimes the mind dreams about places before the body ever gets there.

    — Rowan Evans

    A moonlit beach leading across the ocean toward an unfamiliar city coastline, symbolizing dream travel and longing.
    Sometimes the mind travels to places the body hasn’t reached yet.

    Beach to Beach (How I Get There)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    When I sleep—

    I don’t just rest,
    I drift, I travel—

    moving between worlds,
    between scenery—
    beach to city streets,
    the ones I’ve never known
    while my eyes are open.

    There is a logic my mind follows
    to travel from here to there—

    wherever here and there is,
    it goes like this:

    to leave the shores I know
    and get to the coasts I don’t—
    it’s beach to beach
    after a simple sea crossing—
    and then it’s city streets,
    while the moon watches.

    So I follow the tide
    in my mind—
    until I hit the shoreline.

    I never know what I’ll find—
    but it’s a trip I make often,
    nightly, you could say—
    it’s a trip I hope
    to make awake one day.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Where The Metaphors Lead]
    Some truths are easier to write than they are to say aloud. “Where the Metaphors Lead” explores the quiet space between dreams, confession, and the courage it takes to let another person know how deeply they’ve become woven into your inner world.

    [The World Shifted Around Us]
    The world transformed around us—beach, city streets, jungle—but we never moved. Sometimes love isn’t found in words, but in the quiet certainty of someone remaining clear while everything else fades.

    [Every Night, The Same Flight]
    Every night begins with the same flight. Between wakefulness and sleep, an airport appears, a familiar shoreline waits beyond the journey, and the same dream asks whether some destinations find us before we’re ready to find them.

    [Where I Belonged]
    A bedroom becomes an airport in the space between sleep and waking. Where I Belonged explores liminal consciousness, uncertainty, and the strange moments when reality feels suspended between two worlds.

    [Opposite Coasts of the Same Silence]
    What separates two people isn’t always an ocean. Sometimes it’s the silence between everything left unsaid. Opposite Coasts of the Same Silence explores longing, distance, dreams, and the quiet hope that even across impossible divides, someone might still hear your voice.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Where the Metaphors Lead | A Confessional Poem About Love, Dreams & Finding Your Voice

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some poems begin with an idea. Others begin with a feeling that refuses to leave.

    This one was written in the early hours of the morning, during that familiar stretch of time when the world grows quiet enough for my thoughts to become louder than everything else.

    I’ve always found it easier to write than to speak. Conversations ask for immediate answers. Poetry allows me to sit with a feeling until I understand it well enough to translate it into language.

    Many of the recurring images throughout my recent work—the moon, the tide, distant shores, dreams, and city streets—have become a personal symbolic language. They aren’t separate subjects anymore. They all point toward the same emotional center.

    This poem finally acknowledges that.

    Sometimes the metaphors aren’t hiding anything.

    Sometimes they’re quietly leading us back to the truth we were trying not to say.

    — Rowan Evans

    A lone writer journaling by moonlight at four in the morning while the moon reflects across a calm ocean beyond the window.
    Some feelings only find their voice after midnight, where dreams, memory, and metaphor become impossible to tell apart.

    Where the Metaphors Lead
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    It’s funny how I find myself here again,
    four AM—it’s just me, the music and my pen.
    I’ve got so many thoughts with so much to say,
    my lips move but no sound comes—
    like I lost one voice, when I found the other.

    And it’s not that I can’t speak—

    it’s just that words don’t come easily,
    when they try to come verbally.

    But on the page,
    everything lines up—

    the thoughts, the feelings,
    the things I never say out loud.
    Ink doesn’t trip over itself
    the way my voice does.

    So here are a few
    truths for you—

    there is a woman
    she is on my mind constantly,
    yeah, she is simultaneously
    the easiest and hardest to talk to.

    She makes me feel like I can be me—
    completely.

    And honestly,
    I’ve never really had that
    with anybody else—

    every beautiful line I write
    about the moon in the sky,
    the ocean and tide—

    yeah, most of the time
    it leads back to her
    in my mind.

    And every dream, I translate in ink—
    the shores I walk in sleep,
    secrets I try not to keep,
    even when it’s hard to speak—

    I lay them on the page and pray
    that they’ll reach their destination one day.

    So I sit here,
    four AM again,
    writing the things
    I can’t say out loud—

    hoping one day
    I’ll find the courage
    to speak them aloud.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [The World Shifted Around Us]
    The world transformed around us—beach, city streets, jungle—but we never moved. Sometimes love isn’t found in words, but in the quiet certainty of someone remaining clear while everything else fades.

    [Every Night, The Same Flight]
    Every night begins with the same flight. Between wakefulness and sleep, an airport appears, a familiar shoreline waits beyond the journey, and the same dream asks whether some destinations find us before we’re ready to find them.

    [Where I Belonged]
    A bedroom becomes an airport in the space between sleep and waking. Where I Belonged explores liminal consciousness, uncertainty, and the strange moments when reality feels suspended between two worlds

    [Opposites Coasts of the Same Silence]
    What separates two people isn’t always an ocean. Sometimes it’s the silence between everything left unsaid. Opposite Coasts of the Same Silence explores longing, distance, dreams, and the quiet hope that even across impossible divides, someone might still hear your voice.

    [Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3)]
    A moonlit shoreline, a rowboat full of ducks, a piggybank with no cents, and a confession hidden in plain sight. Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3) explores how humor, wordplay, and absurdity can become a side door to vulnerability when the truth feels too difficult to say directly.

    [Call of the Tide]
    A poem about identity, displacement, and the quiet pull toward something beyond the shoreline you were born on. Sometimes the tide calls louder than the anthem.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Every Night, The Same Flight | A Dreamlike Poem About Sleep, Longing & Recurring Dreams

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve written about these dreams before.

    The airport. The flight. The familiar shoreline. The city streets I’ve never lived in, yet somehow know by heart.

    They return so often that they’ve become part of my personal mythology.

    Every night seems to begin the same way. As I drift toward sleep, the quiet of my bedroom dissolves into the sounds of a busy terminal. I never question why I’m there anymore. I simply board another flight, knowing it will carry me to the same destination.

    What’s strange isn’t that the dream repeats.

    It’s that every repetition feels less like imagination and more like recognition.

    I’ve never believed dreams need to predict the future to matter. Sometimes they simply reveal the places our hearts keep returning to before we’re ready to admit why.

    This poem isn’t really about airports or travel.

    It’s about the quiet certainty that some destinations seem to choose us long before we choose them.

    — Rowan Evans

    A dreamlike airport terminal blending into a moonlit tropical shoreline with a distant coastal city across shimmering water.
    Some journeys begin the moment we close our eyes.

    Every Night, The Same Flight
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I laid—slowly drifting, I was slipping
    from consciousness to slumber.
    I was boarding that flight,
    the one I take every night.

    The journey always starts the same,
    eyes flutter, like the moths in my stomach.

    Then the sounds of terminals,
    passengers rushing pas me
    in search of their gates.
    But this isn’t an airport—
    it’s just my brain.

    The gate numbers blur,
    shifting like thoughts I haven’t named yet.
    Every announcement echoes
    in a voice I almost recognize.
    I walk toward a destination,
    unsure of where I’m going,
    but somehow already knowing—
    I’m meant to catch a flight,
    of which there are plenty—
    one for every thought of you,
    of which there are many.

    They always lead to the same place—
    always the same shores, the same bay,
    and it always feels like it’s calling my name.
    The way the moon shimmers the same,
    its reflection dancing across the waves.
    Then I always find myself wandering city streets,
    feeling the heat and humidity.
    But I would rather be, nowhere else.

    I wander—
    taking in the sights and sounds,
    bathing in the smells all around.

    I wonder—
    what would it be like if this was home.
    Yeah, what if this was my life now?

    I breathe it in,
    the warmth, the noise, the pulse—
    a life that feels borrowed,
    yet somehow mine.
    It’s a preview that I get every night—
    and I wonder if the dream
    is trying to tell me something
    I’m not ready to say awake.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Where I Belonged]
    A bedroom becomes an airport in the space between sleep and waking. Where I Belonged explores liminal consciousness, uncertainty, and the strange moments when reality feels suspended between two worlds.

    [Pointing Me Home]
    The final poem in the No Metaphor Left Behind trilogy explores dreams, hope, and belonging. Through moonlight, ocean tides, and quiet conversation, Pointing Me Home reflects on carrying hope long before reaching the place you call home.

    [Caller ID: Destiny]
    Sometimes the places we visit in our dreams feel more like home than the places we wake up in. Caller ID: Destiny explores longing, belonging, and the quiet feeling that life is calling you toward somewhere new.

    [Returning to My Bones]
    Some dreams fade the moment we wake. Others leave behind emotions that linger long after reality returns. Returning to My Bones explores the strange grief of leaving a dream that felt real enough to matter.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • When the Veil Is Thin | A Confessional Poem About 4 AM Thoughts, Longing & Sleepless Truth

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    There seems to be something about four in the morning.

    Not because it’s magical in any supernatural sense, but because it’s quiet enough that there’s nowhere left for your thoughts to hide.

    I’ve written several poems that begin around that hour, and they all seem to share the same quality: honesty arrives before I have time to edit it.

    This poem came from one of those mornings.

    I wasn’t trying to write a love poem.

    I was trying to understand why certain thoughts become louder when the rest of the world falls silent.

    The title, When the Veil Is Thin, can be read a lot of ways. Some people hear something mystical in it. For me, it’s more psychological.

    The veil is simply the distance between what I feel and what I’m willing to admit.

    During the day, that veil is thick.

    By four in the morning…

    it becomes almost transparent.

    This poem isn’t really about insomnia.

    It’s about the moments when the truth finally stops whispering and starts speaking clearly enough that you can no longer pretend not to hear it.

    — Rowan Evans

    A sleepless writer sits beside an open notebook as moonlight fades into the first light of dawn through a bedroom window.
    Some truths wait until the world is quiet enough to be heard.

    When the Veil Is Thin
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    It’s after four AM
    and the veil is thin—
    I should be asleep
    but my mind won’t
    cease to speak.

    It won’t stop the talk—
    I try to write, just anything—
    because this is when the truth
    seems to sing,
    it rings through the ink—

    It’s you in every thought—
    and I can’t seem to shake
    this feeling in my chest.

    It’s not a weight, just an ache—
    sometimes it keeps me awake.

    And I try—I try so hard
    to just say the things,
    but I bite my tongue
    and my mouth snaps shut.

    It’s got me screaming—
    what the…

    Why am I still up?

    I’m still awake,
    with thoughts I can’t shake.
    With dreams just out of reach
    of shores I’m longing for—

    I just need to be clear.
    It’s not the thought
    of your hand in mine.

    It’s the thought of our time,
    together, intertwined—

    maybe when dawn breaks
    this feeling will ease—
    but for now, it lingers,
    soft as the moon on my skin.

    The veil thins again—
    and in the hush before morning,
    your name is the only truth
    that doesn’t fade.

    The sky begins to pale—
    and I let the thought of you
    carry me into sleep.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Where Intimacy Begins]
    For some, attraction begins with appearance. For others, it begins with conversation. Where Intimacy Begins explores the beauty of curiosity, deep listening, and the quiet connection that forms when two minds truly meet.

    [The Life of a Witness Poet]
    What does it mean to love someone when the greatest act of care is simply witnessing their life? This poem explores quiet devotion, distance, and the compassionate heart of a witness poet.

    [What I’m Trying to Say]
    What begins as an exaggerated promise of love slowly strips itself back until only one simple truth remains: real devotion isn’t found in grand gestures—it’s found in consistently showing up.

    [Recognizes Home]
    A free-verse poem exploring the difference between love as dependency and love as choice. It challenges the idea that love must be need-based, instead centering the quiet strength of choosing someone while still remaining whole on your own.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Opposite Coasts of the Same Silence | A Poem About Distance, Longing & Unspoken Love

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some distances aren’t measured in miles.

    They’re measured in conversations you haven’t had yet.

    In words that stayed behind your teeth.

    In the quiet space between two people who are looking toward one another but still can’t quite bridge the water between them.

    I’ve always been drawn to oceans because they represent contradiction. Water connects continents, yet it also separates them. It carries messages, memories, ships, storms—and still leaves shorelines untouched by one another.

    That became the emotional center of this poem.

    The “opposite coasts” aren’t necessarily literal places. They’re two inner worlds existing at the same time, close enough to imagine, far enough that neither person can simply step across.

    The moon became the only thing capable of visiting both shores.

    It witnesses both sides equally.

    It touches both tides.

    Yet even it cannot erase the distance.

    This poem isn’t about giving up.

    It’s about acknowledging that some silences become landscapes of their own—and learning to live honestly inside them until, perhaps, one day, the tide changes.

    — Rowan Evans

    Two figures stand on opposite moonlit shores separated by a wide ocean as the full moon reflects across the water between them.
    Some distances aren’t measured in miles—they’re measured in everything left unsaid.

    Opposite Coasts of the Same Silence
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I sit—moon kissed,
    watching the tide
    inside my mind—
    as dreams move in,
    and thoughts roll out.

    It’s an ocean wide,
    this divide between us.
    I can see your shore in my mind,
    but I can’t seem to reach it—
    we stand on opposite coasts
    of the same silence.

    It’s a silence
    full of things I never said.
    A silence
    shaped like your name.

    The moon hangs between us
    like a quiet messenger—
    I whisper secrets for her to carry
    from my shore to yours.
    It pulls at your tide and mine,
    but never enough to close the distance.

    Sometimes I swear
    I hear your voice in the undertow.
    The distance hums
    with everything unfinished.

    Every wave reaches
    for something it can’t hold.
    The water keeps returning,
    but you don’t.
    There are whole storms between us
    I never learned to name.
    Currents I can feel but not follow.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Where Intamacy Begins]
    For some, attraction begins with appearance. For others, it begins with conversation. Where Intimacy Begins explores the beauty of curiosity, deep listening, and the quiet connection that forms when two minds truly meet.

    [I’d Rather Try]
    Anyone can promise they’d die for someone. But love isn’t built on one dramatic moment—it’s built on showing up, trying again tomorrow, and proving your words through consistent action.

    [Pointing Me Home]
    The final poem in the No Metaphor Left Behind trilogy explores dreams, hope, and belonging. Through moonlight, ocean tides, and quiet conversation, Pointing Me Home reflects on carrying hope long before reaching the place you call home.

    [Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3)]
    A moonlit shoreline, a rowboat full of ducks, a piggybank with no cents, and a confession hidden in plain sight. Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3) explores how humor, wordplay, and absurdity can become a side door to vulnerability when the truth feels too difficult to say directly.

    [I’ll Be There to See Your Sunrise]
    Love has never come easily to me. This poem explores the fear, vulnerability, and quiet courage required to stay emotionally present when connection begins to matter deeply. “I’ll Be There to See Your Sunrise” is about choosing love despite the risk of heartbreak—and promising to remain long enough to witness someone fully.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • The Life of a Witness Poet | A Poem About Loving from a Distance

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some poems arrive as declarations.

    This one arrived as an observation.

    I’ve often described myself as a witness poet—someone who pays attention, who notices the emotional weather around the people I care about, and then translates those observations into poetry.

    Sometimes that role feels like a gift.

    Sometimes it feels helpless.

    Because witnessing doesn’t always come with the ability to change what you see.

    You can recognize someone’s strength, admire their resilience, ache alongside their struggles, and still be separated by circumstances larger than either of you.

    This poem isn’t about unrequited love.

    It isn’t about sacrifice.

    It’s about accepting that love isn’t always measured by proximity.

    Sometimes love looks like paying attention.

    Sometimes it looks like quietly hoping someone feels a little less alone because, somewhere in the world, another heart witnessed their struggle with compassion instead of judgment.

    That’s the strange privilege—and responsibility—of being a witness poet.

    Not every distance is meant to be closed.

    Some are simply meant to be seen.

    — Rowan Evans

    A lone figure watching moonlight shimmer across a calm ocean toward a distant shore, symbolizing quiet love, witnessing, and emotional distance.
    “Some distances cannot be crossed—but they can still be held with compassion.”

    The Life of a Witness Poet
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    The life of a witness poet—

    it’s harder than you think,
    when your heart bleeds in ink.
    And it only gets harder
    when you’ve fallen
    for the one you witness.

    You see the weight she carries,
    you watch from a distance—
    your hands tied by the tide,
    and the gap—an ocean wide.
    You want to be a light in her life—

    like the moon in the sky.

    You learn to glow quietly,
    hoping she’ll look up someday—

    not for you,
    but for the comfort
    you’ve been trying to give
    from a distance.

    So you learn to love in silence,
    in the spaces between her storms—

    holding what you can,
    honoring what you can’t,
    knowing some distances
    aren’t meant to be crossed,
    only witnessed.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [What I’m Trying to Say]
    What begins as an exaggerated promise of love slowly strips itself back until only one simple truth remains: real devotion isn’t found in grand gestures—it’s found in consistently showing up.

    [I’d Rather Try]
    Anyone can promise they’d die for someone. But love isn’t built on one dramatic moment—it’s built on showing up, trying again tomorrow, and proving your words through consistent action.

    [Pointing Me Home]
    The final poem in the No Metaphor Left Behind trilogy explores dreams, hope, and belonging. Through moonlight, ocean tides, and quiet conversation, Pointing Me Home reflects on carrying hope long before reaching the place you call home.

    [Only Waiting]
    The second poem in the No Metaphor Left Behind series, exploring the quiet ache of growing up in a place that never truly felt like home—and finally saying aloud what years of metaphor had been trying to express.

    [Crossing the Sea]
    A deeply personal poem about relocation, longing, and the realization that some truths naturally arrive through metaphor—even when we try to leave it behind.

    [I’ll Be There to See Your Sunrise]
    Love has never come easily to me. This poem explores the fear, vulnerability, and quiet courage required to stay emotionally present when connection begins to matter deeply. “I’ll Be There to See Your Sunrise” is about choosing love despite the risk of heartbreak—and promising to remain long enough to witness someone fully.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Pointing Me Home (No Metaphor Left Behind) | A Poem About Dreams, Hope & Finding Home

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem became the quiet conclusion to a trilogy I never intended to write.

    Crossing the Sea was about direction.

    Only Waiting was about the reason I needed that direction in the first place.

    This piece asks a different question:

    How do you keep moving when you haven’t arrived yet?

    For me, the answer has always been dreams.

    Not because I confuse them with reality, but because they remind me that another reality is possible.

    I’ve written about dreams for years. They rarely feel random to me. They often feel like rehearsals—small glimpses of a life my mind already believes exists somewhere beyond the horizon.

    The city in this poem isn’t a specific city.

    The moon isn’t really the moon.

    Even after spending two poems trying to strip away metaphor, I found myself sitting beside it again.

    I think that’s because hope has always spoken to me symbolically.

    When I’m awake, I know where I am.

    When I’m asleep, I remember where I’m going.

    The dream doesn’t replace reality.

    It sustains me until reality catches up.

    The final image—a dream folded into my chest like a map—is probably the clearest way I’ve ever described hope.

    Hope isn’t certainty.

    It isn’t arrival.

    It’s carrying the direction with you, even when you’re still standing at the beginning of the journey.

    And maybe that’s what this trilogy has been trying to say all along.

    Sometimes home begins as a place.

    Sometimes it becomes an ache.

    Sometimes…

    it’s simply the direction you’re already walking.

    — Rowan Evans

    A lone figure sits beneath a full moon where an ocean shoreline transitions into quiet city streets, holding a folded map while reflecting on hope, dreams, and the journey toward home.
    “Sometimes home isn’t where you’re standing—it’s the direction you’re already walking.” 🌙🗺️

    Pointing Me Home (No Metaphor Left Behind)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Tick tock, tick tock—
    that’s the sound of the clock.
    I listen as I wait for the escape,
    a simple trip, brought on by sleep.
    Because I only feel at home
    in my dreams.

    So as I close my eyes
    and my head hits the pillow—
    I follow the moon
    to the ocean’s edge,
    I listen to the tide—
    I follow it in stride
    until I find where it’s pulling me.

    With every step,
    I move deeper in.
    Slowly sand turns to concrete
    beneath my feet,
    as the beach transitions
    into city streets.

    Streetlights flicker
    like they’re remembering
    they used to be stars.

    The hum of the city
    folds into the sound of waves,
    each echo a reminder
    of where I started
    and where I’m going.

    I walk until the moon
    hangs between buildings
    like it’s lost too—

    like it’s looking for someone to talk to.

    So I sit and conversate,
    I tell the moon all about the quiet ache—
    the feeling that I need to change
    my environment to one that aligns
    more with what I feel inside.

    And the moon sits with me,
    just listening—so I talk some more.
    Out of my heart, the words just pour.
    I spill every secret, I hold nothing back
    until I feel like I might collapse.

    The moon listens,
    patient as ever,
    its light softening
    the edges of my thoughts.

    And when I finally fall silent,
    breath trembling,
    chest heavy—

    it tilts itself
    just enough
    to remind me
    I’m not alone
    in the places I wander.

    Tick tock, tick tock.

    A return to the rhythm of the clock,
    interrupting the talk—
    the moon’s light gives way
    to the sun’s rays,
    I’m still stuck in this place—

    but I’m only waiting
    until I can cross the sea,
    Pacific and the Philippine.

    Until then,
    I carry the dream like a map,
    folded in my chest—

    pointing me home.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Crossing the Sea (No Metaphor Left Behind)]
    A deeply personal poem about relocation, longing, and the realization that some truths naturally arrive through metaphor—even when we try to leave it behind.

    [Only Waiting (No Metaphor Left Behind)]
    The second poem in the No Metaphor Left Behind series, exploring the quiet ache of growing up in a place that never truly felt like home—and finally saying aloud what years of metaphor had been trying to express.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Caller ID: Destiny | A Poem About Dreams, Belonging, and Finding Home

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some dreams stay with me because of what happens in them.

    Others stay because of how they make me feel after I wake up.

    This poem belongs to the second kind.

    Lately, I’ve found myself dreaming about places I’ve never lived but somehow recognize. Cities that feel familiar before I arrive. Streets that carry a strange sense of belonging. When I wake, there’s often a brief moment where those places feel more like home than the room I’m actually in.

    That feeling became the heart of this piece.

    The image of a phone call arrived almost immediately. Not as a literal phone, but as the unmistakable sensation that something beyond my current life keeps trying to get my attention. The title came from asking myself what that call would look like if it appeared on a screen.

    Caller ID: Destiny.

    The final stanza is probably the most honest part of the poem.

    It’s not really about wanting to sleep.

    It’s about wanting to wake up somewhere that feels like I’m finally living the life I’ve been moving toward for years.

    Sometimes dreams aren’t an escape from reality.

    Sometimes they’re reminders that another future still feels possible.

    — Rowan Evans

    A person standing alone on a quiet street at dawn holding a glowing phone that reads "Caller ID: Destiny," while a luminous dreamlike city shines in the distance.
    Sometimes the loudest call doesn’t come from a phone—it comes from the life waiting for you beyond the horizon.

    Caller ID: Destiny
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    As the haze of sleep
    finally leaves,
    I find myself missing
    the dreams.

    In my sleep
    I walk the streets
    in the places
    that are calling me.

    It’s like my phone is ringing
    off the hook—

    caller id reads:
    Destiny.

    Message received:
    “Time to leave.”

    I’m done begging
    where I’m from—
    to notice me.

    I feel seen
    in my dreams,
    and invisible
    in my streets.

    So I’d rather sleep
    than be awake
    in this state.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Crossing the Sea (No Metaphor Left Behind)]
    A deeply personal poem about relocation, longing, and the realization that some truths naturally arrive through metaphor—even when we try to leave it behind.

    [Only Waiting (No Metaphor Left Behind)]
    The second poem in the No Metaphor Left Behind series, exploring the quiet ache of growing up in a place that never truly felt like home—and finally saying aloud what years of metaphor had been trying to express.

    [Returning to My Bones]
    Some dreams fade the moment we wake. Others leave behind emotions that linger long after reality returns. Returning to My Bones explores the strange grief of leaving a dream that felt real enough to matter.

    [Before My Feet Touch the Floor]
    What happens when your dreams feel more real than your waking life? Before My Feet Touch the Floor explores the strange grief of waking up, the lingering memory of dream selves, and the quiet question of which version of us is truly real.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]