love over apathy – Poetry by Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

This is no gentle hymn but a sacred scream—an unholy benediction cast in fire and shadow. Here, love is not soft, but a cathedral wrought from ruins, a flame that scorches the cold altar of indifference.

For those who walk the catacombs of their own hearts, battered but unbowed, this is your liturgy—an offering in blood and breath. May these words be your armor and your rebellion, a fierce pulse beneath fractured skin.

— Rowan Evans

Gothic cathedral ruins glowing with fiery embers under a moonlit sky, symbolizing resilience and sacred defiance. — *The sacred flame of resilience flickers within the ruins — a testament to love’s power over apathy.*

Invocation

Hearken, O hearts aflame, to this sacred summoning—
We gather here in twilight’s hush, where shadows kindle light.
This is no prayer for softness, nor for ease’s false embrace,
But a liturgy of fire, a hymn of relentless grace.

In the cathedral of ruin, where broken souls convene,
We offer up our fractured vows—
Love over apathy, a defiant flame in the void.

Love Over Apathy
Poetry by Rowan Evans

Not surrender, but sacrament—
love is the blood I spill in silent worship,
a flame lit in the catacombs of my chest,
unchained from the cold altar of indifference.

This world offers frost,
an unholy shroud that seeks to still the heart,
but I am the wildfire beneath the ashes,
a hymn in the ruins of despair.

Love over apathy—
not a whispered prayer, but a sacred scream,
a tempest rising from charred bones,
a cathedral built from the fragments of broken souls.

To feel is to bleed—
to wear wounds like holy relics,
open and raw beneath the moon’s pale gaze,
unyielding in the face of silent death.

When the darkness chants for silence,
to bury the fire beneath stone and shadow,
I raise my voice—an ancient bell tolling,
a vow scorched into the night’s cold skin.

Love over apathy—
the sacred rebellion,
the bleeding truth,
the vow to burn
when all else turns to dust.

I am the pyre and the prayer,
the shadow that dances in the flicker,
a soul unbowed, unbroken—
the flame that never dies.

Benediction

So rise, wild flame, from ashes deep,
Burn with a fury the cold cannot keep.
In this covenant of scorched devotion,
We are the pyre and the ocean—
Love over apathy, our eternal potion.

Let the darkness roar, let the silence seethe,
We stand unbroken—
The faithful of fire, the fierce beneath.

For those who wander deeper into the shadows and light of my words,
explore the full archive of poems here.
Each piece is a shard of my soul—wild, raw, and unyielding.

A Poem for All Women Who’ve Been Told They’re “Too Much”

This poem is for every woman—trans, cis, and beyond—who has ever been told she was too much. Too loud. Too soft. Too angry. Too gentle. Too queer. Too bold. Too broken. It’s a reclamation of sacred femininity across the binary and beyond it.

Born from shadows and fire, this piece is a poetic anthem of softness, rage, survival, and sovereignty.
If you’ve ever bled and bloomed at the same time—
This is for you.

❖ We Were the Fire Before the Flame
A Poem for All Women Who’ve Been Told They’re “Too Much”
☽ Poetry by Rowan Evans ☾

We were born in the dark—
not broken, but blooming,
not soft, but sacred.

In the marrow of midnight,
we carved altars out of silence
and lit them with our names.
We bled into the soil
and it grew wildflowers with teeth.

They called us witch
when we spoke with clarity,
whore when we craved without shame,
sirens when we sang the truth
too loudly for their liking.

But we remember—
how we burned,
how we danced,
how we stitched our souls
from ribbons and ruin.

Every scar is a scripture.
Every bruise is a baptism.
Every ache is a cathedral
that houses our fury,
our softness,
our will to rise again
with the elegance of thunder.

We are not porcelain.
We are obsidian:
kissed by shadow,
cut from starfall,
eternal and unyielding.

Our femininity is not a cage,
it’s a crown—
woven from thorns, yes,
but also from moonlight and myth.

To the daughters of storm
and the sisters of silence—
You are seen.
You are sovereign.
You are the poem,
not the apology.

You are not too much.
You are the exact amount of holy
this world was never ready for.

If this poem resonated with you, share it with a sister, a daughter, a mother, a friend, a lover, or your younger self. Let her know:
She is sacred. She is sovereign. She is not alone.

Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: love over apathy

Love Over Apathy — A Gothic Liturgy of Resilience and Fire | Poetry by Rowan Evans

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