This poem is about the difference between performance and presence. About words that are used to impress versus words that are spoken because they are true. I wrote this for the kind of connection that doesn’t need charm, tricks, or grand gestures—only honesty and attention.
Quietly Rearrangedis about how real affection doesn’t demand change, but inspires it. How being genuinely seen can shift the way you stand in the world without ever asking you to move. It’s a reminder that the most powerful influence someone can have on us is simply being who they are—openly, softly, and without pretense.
Some people speak to gain. Some people speak to give. This poem knows the difference.
Real connection doesn’t demand change—it quietly inspires it.
Quietly Rearranged Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’m not a charmer,
I don’t work with snakes—
I say fuck fakes.
I’m a truth‑teller,
and my words
are worth
a fortune.
He says sweet nothings
that are actually nothing—
just words in costume,
trying to gain things.
I whisper sweet nothings
and twist them into somethings.
I’ll say every thought
of what you mean to me.
So go ahead—put me on the spot,
I’ll talk
until you tell me to stop.
Alright—so here I go.
What do I like about you?
Your eyes.
Your smile.
The way your voice softens
when you laugh,
when you say my name
it becomes the softest sound.
And your personality?
Second to none.
It’s the way your existence
quietly rearranges me.
Makes me want to stand straighter,
choose better,
reach further—
not because you asked,
but because you exist.
Sanctum of Sin was originally written on May 16th, 2025, and polished on December 16th, 2025. This piece is part of my ongoing exploration of Neo‑Gothic Confessional Romanticism—where intimacy, devotion, shadow, and sacred rebellion collide. It is not about ownership, but about chosen connection; not about religion, but about ritual; not about sin, but about the holiness we find in places the world tells us to hide.
Sanctum of Sin visualized: a shadowed embrace amidst candlelight, capturing the sacred intimacy and ritualistic devotion of Rowan Evans’ Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.
Sanctum of Sin Poetry by Rowan Evans
I never wanted heaven.
I wanted her.
Eyes like unholy sacraments,
fingertips dipped in blood and honey,
a laugh that makes holy water boil,
and my knees hit the floor
with gratitude.
She is my altar and my undoing,
my blasphemy made flesh.
Let the angels weep—
I never asked for salvation.
Only the weight of her thighs
and the way her wickedness
matches mine in every grin-shaped curse.
We don’t light candles.
We set fires.
We hex the night with pleasure
and whisper dirty prayers
until the moon blushes
and turns her face away.
I keep a vial of her voice
around my neck,
a charm against the dull ache
of anyone else’s touch.
And when she says she’s tired—
oh darling,
we’ll make exhaustion holy.
I’ll drain the stars
just to pour her a bath in darkness.
I’ll mark her spine with sigils
only I know how to read.
Every spell begins with her name,
every climax a ritual,
every kiss a blood oath
demanding loyalty
even in our ruin.
Let them call us monsters.
We’ll show them how gods are made—
not in temples,
but in tangled sheets
and shared laughter
over the graves of those who hurt us.
No past can dim the light we forge.
Every scar, every memory,
becomes gold in the fire of our nights.
We rise, tender in our ruin,
untouchable, untamed, unbroken.
Because she is mine now—
not owned, but chosen.
Not tamed, but trusted.
And I am hers.
Ruthlessly.
Completely.
Beautifully doomed.
So let the world burn.
We’ll dance in the embers.
We’ll write new psalms in spit and sweat.
We’ll worship only each other—
in shadow,
in sin,
in sanctum.
This piece is a reflection on persistence, inspiration, and the threads that connect my work over the past year. Each italicized title is a window into the poems that shaped this journey—moments of love, desire, trauma, healing, and devotion.
At its heart, this is about process as much as outcome: the daily practice of writing, the sparks of muse, and the quiet work done in the late hours when the world is still. It’s also a tribute to those who witness these words—across screens, pages, and hearts—you are part of this ongoing journey too.
Consider this piece a bridge: between poems, between moments, between the past and the work yet to come.
Late nights, ink-stained fingers, and the quiet companionship of words—where every poem begins.
131 Days (A Journey Through Words, Fire, and Devotion) Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’ve been so focused— over-focused, some say. One hundred thirty-one days and counting.
I’ve written with range: love, desire, mental health, trauma, recovery. There’s more, of course, but that’s the core.
My muse, my inspiration is— A-Woman. The vision of beauty, an angel on earth— a Filipina, with fire in her eyes. When the world tries to put her fire out, that is when I Cry to the Quiet. And why I Am offering myself to her, fully. Freely. For you see, she— is Perfectly Imperfect, which means… she is perfect for me.
Late nights, ink-stained fingers, the quiet my closest companion. For those who witness, across pages and screens, you carry a piece of this journey too. And still, I write on.
If you enjoyed this piece and want to check out more of my work, you can click one of the many links scattered throughout the poem itself. They take you to my highest viewed pieces of the year. I am not saying they are my best pieces, just the ones that got the most views. Anyway, you can find more of my work here:[The Library of Ashes]
From the shadows of ink and flame, I call you to witness: the fourfold chorus that lives in my bones, the laughter, the tremors, the sacred mischief. This is not a poem for the faint-hearted. It is a map of selves, a conspiracy written in whispers, candlelight, and heartbeat.
Before you read, take a moment. Breathe with us. Feel the pulse beneath your ribs, the stir of voices in the hollows of your mind. They are alive. They are protective. They are relentless.
This is A Conspiracy of Selves: a ritual of identity, a hymn to the multiplicity within, a reckoning with the parts of me that will not be silenced. Enter carefully, reader—here, we laugh, we panic, we conspire, and we are never, ever alone.
𓆩 ⊹ 𓆪
“The fourfold chorus of selves, living in the bones—laughing, whispering, guiding.”
🕯️ A Conspiracy of Selves
🜃 from the Grimoires of the Luminous Heretic 🜃 ☽☉☾ Poetry by Rowan Evans ☽☉☾
╔═══ ༺🜲༻ ═══╗ Jeepers Creepers, Look at those peepers— Blue as ocean waves, Locked in glass jars. ╚═══ ༺🜲༻ ═══╝
Plucked from your face
with soft, sacred grace,
Let me look at you—
through your eyes.
Let me see the flaws I missed
when I mistook you for a mirror.
Pluck my own, lay them on a shelf,
Replace my vision with someone else.
Let me see what you see in me—
Before I shut and lock
the shutters on these soul-windows.
Hahaha—
𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐
Laughing against padded walls.
How absurd, the straightjacket
stitched for queer souls.
Lipstick smears. Mascara bleeds.
Bouncing off the padded dreams,
I’m a Joker. A Harlequin.
A jester stitched from sacred sin.
A witch in reverence.
A demon within.
𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐
Now. Hush—
𓂃 𓆩 ✶ 𓆪 𓂃 I see it. The truth behind the paint. I hear it. The turning of pages.
None of this is real. We’re all just creations. 𓂃 𓆩 ✶ 𓆪 𓂃
Either way—
We’re not alone. There are four of us, living in these bones.
Do you hear them? Do you hear us?
The whispers. The secret incantations. Magic & Whimsy. A little Hexed. A little unfriendly.
Who’s there? Is it you, B.D.? Or is it me?
But—who is me? I mean… who are we?
You. And the other three.
No. Me. And the rest of you.
The fire inside, to conspire and hide. But you won’t let me— Dragged from the shadows kicking and screaming. Begging and pleading.
Roo, don’t let them do this to me.
It’s okay, Rowan. This is necessary.
I know it’s scary, but you’ve lost it.
So here. Take your pills.
Take them.
You’re scaring me.
I thought we were friends. A family.
No. You are we.
And we— are you.
Breathe.
𓆩 ⊹ 𓆪 Do you feel it? That’s the panic setting in.
I can’t breathe. We can’t breathe.
You’re suffocating.
Just calm down. Take a look around.
I’m all alone here.
We’re all alone here? No.
You’re not alone, Rowan. We live in your bones, Rowan. So you’re never alone, Rowan. Where do you think you’re goin’, Rowan?
You can’t run from us. We live inside you.
You birthed us to protect and guide you. 𓆩 ⊹ 𓆪
If you are interested in reading more of my poetry, you can find it here:[The Library of Ashes]
Some people leave, but their weather stays. This poem is not about loss—it is about endurance, memory, and the quiet strength it takes to remain standing when the storm remembers everything.
Some people leave, but their weather stays.
I Am the Storm That Remembers Poetry by Rowan Evans
Everyone comes into our lives for a reason,
but some are only meant for a season.
Then the weather changes,
and they begin to drift.
It may not hit like an immediate shift,
it may slowly unfold and fade.
Yet even as they go,
their footprints linger,
like sunlight caught in the corner of a room,
warm but unreachable.
For me, memories swirl
like storm clouds roiling overhead,
thunder rolling through my chest,
lightning flashing their faces,
voices cutting through the wind—
too sharp to ignore, too loud to forget.
I try to run.
I try to close the windows,
pull the shutters tight.
But the storm is patient.
It seeps through cracks,
slips under doors,
lingers in the spaces I thought I’d cleared.
Rain falls in shards,
drenches my quiet moments,
washes over laughter I can’t recover,
drowns the footprints of the ones who left.
And yet, in the chaos,
there is a strange kind of clarity:
the storm remembers,
and so do I.
I wish I could let it go,
to be like them—
so quick to forget,
so light in the sun.
But I am not.
I am the storm’s echo,
the residue of seasons past,
and somehow, I carry their weight
and my own,
and I am still here,
breathing,
walking,
storm-beaten but alive.
Shadows and Stars grew out of that quiet kind of love that doesn’t ask for transformation—only truth. It’s a devotion rooted in darkness as much as light, where two imperfect people find a rhythm that doesn’t require saving or fixing, just seeing. This poem is about loving someone exactly as they are—the sharp edges, the softness, the chaos, the fire—and trusting that the right souls don’t dilute each other. They orbit together.
Two souls, bound by gravity and devotion, meeting where shadow and starlight become one.
Shadows and Stars Poetry by Rowan Evans
I am not here to save you,
because I am no savior.
And you—
you are no damsel in distress,
you’re just stressed.
Life might be
somewhat of a mess,
but you’re still worth it,
nonetheless.
And I’m not here to fix you,
because you’re not a fixer-upper.
You’re a person—
complex and perfect
in your imperfections.
Your darkness
matches mine.
I find,
in these shadows,
we’re two of a kind,
you and I.
No, I don’t want to change you.
Why would I want to change you?
To change you would be to
sand down the edges I’ve come to love.
You see—
I love it when you’re mean.
I love the bite, the burn, the sting.
I love when you talk shit,
spit venom.
You say you’re crazy? I love that too.
I love the attitude, the dominance you exude,
and I love it when you’re gentle.
It’s simple—
it’s you. It’s always been.
Two stars, orbit in tandem.
And here we stay,
constellations intertwined,
your shadows in my light,
my darkness in your shine.
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.
Fragile Pulse came from watching the world move on autopilot—how easily people slip into routines, expectations, and identities that aren’t truly their own. It’s a poem about alienation, yes, but also about the quiet, stubborn spark that still lives beneath all that machinery.
This piece is my reminder that even in places that feel lifeless or mechanical, there are moments of real humanity—small flickers of authenticity that reach back when we reach out. It’s about connection in a world that often forgets how to feel, and about what it means to notice the spark in someone who thought theirs had gone out.
A fragile pulse is still a pulse. And sometimes, that’s enough to change everything.
A fragile spark in a mechanical world — the pulse that refuses to fade.
Fragile Pulse Poetry by Rowan Evans
Oh, you’re here?
Do you hear that?
Listen—
the hum of motors,
the whir of gears.
You see a land of people;
I see a land of robots—
not thinking,
only following programs.
They walk past you,
faces blank,
eyes fixed,
hands moving in repetition,
hearts forgotten in the chest,
souls traded for schedules.
And I watch—
not with hope,
not with judgment,
but with quiet fascination
at how easily the mind bends
when freedom is a stranger.
Do you hear it too?
The faint pulse beneath the circuits,
the tiny spark of something
that refuses to be programmed.
It’s fragile—
like a candle in a storm,
but it exists.
I can feel it,
even if the rest cannot.
I reach out—
not with force,
not with commands,
but with a touch gentle enough
to tremble against wires and bone.
Some notice;
some do not,
but the ones who do
flicker for a moment—
a shadow of thought
breaking through the rhythm
of their programming.
And in that flicker,
I see the impossible:
a memory, a desire,
a pulse that answers mine.
A whisper shared
between what is alive
and what has almost forgotten how.
Maybe it’s nothing,
just a flicker in the dark,
but even a single spark
can set a world alight.
I hold it close—
this fragile pulse—
and for a heartbeat,
the land of robots
becomes a land of us.
Shape Me is one of the most devotional and intimate pieces I’ve written in my Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism style. Unlike poems that hide behind metaphor or shadow, this piece is a direct offering—a confession of desire, vulnerability, and the sacred exchange of trust and devotion between lovers.
In these lines, I explore the tension between surrender and agency, intimacy and worship, chaos and devotion. The speaker is not submitting out of weakness but offering themselves fully, consciously, as a temple, a vessel, a flame. This is the essence of NGCR: love as ritual, connection as liturgy, desire as sacred architecture.
Every word in this poem is an invocation—an attempt to make tangible the invisible: the power of another person to shape us, to awaken us, to teach us. It is not just about giving, but about transformation, reverence, and the deliberate building of sacred intimacy.
This piece is for anyone willing to witness vulnerability as strength, to see devotion as a craft, and to honor love as a discipline.
— Rowan Evans
In the quiet between breath and fire, we shape each other into something sacred.
Shape Me Poetry by Rowan Evans
I want you to shape me, turn me into what you need me to be.
Bring out the best in me. Invest in me. Teach me to be the one worthy of your fire.
I offer my body as clay upon your altar, my pulse a quiet hymn to mark the rhythm of your hands across my soul.
Mold me, carve me, purge what is hollow, polish the edges until only devotion remains.
I am yours not in chains, not in fear, but willingly, every fiber of me attuned to your flame.
I want to learn to love you wholly, to meet the shadows in your soul with the light of mine.
This is not surrender. It is worship. A cathedral rises in the spaces between us, pillars of pulse and breath, arches of fire and silence, where desire and reverence entwine.
Teach me to hold your storm without breaking. Teach me to kneel without losing myself. I want to be the one entrusted to carry both your ruin and your grace.
When you speak, I will listen as a disciple. When you touch, I will feel as a consecrated vessel. When you are quiet, I will hold the silence like a sacred relic you lent me in trust.
Shape me, teach me, mold me. From your hands, your fire, your devotion, I will rise anew— temple and flame, shadow and offering, entirely yours, entirely mine.
Every Word I Mean is one of the most vulnerable things I’ve written in a while—not because it hides behind metaphor, but because it refuses to. I’m used to expressing the deepest truths in symbols, shadows, and lyrical disguises. But this time, I wanted to speak plainly. To show what it looks like when I mean something so much that I don’t need to dress it in poetry.
Every line in this piece is something I’ve said in real life—honestly, openly, without hesitation. These aren’t metaphors or masks; they’re just my truth. And putting that truth into ink feels almost more intimate than any confession I’ve written before.
This is me without armor. Just words I meant, and still mean.
— Rowan Evans
A quiet moment of truth poured into ink — every word written with intention.
Every Word I Mean Poetry by Rowan Evans
If I speak it,
in words or ink,
then know I mean it.
Because I don’t say things
just to say them—
I only say them
when I feel them.
Like—
I love
your smile,
your laugh,
your nose.
(It’s cute, really.)
I think you’re beautiful,
and I’m not going anywhere.
I’m never going to leave.
I want to build a real foundation.
Show you the love and respect
you deserve.
With me,
I always want you
to feel safe and heard.
These are all things I’ve said—
not hidden in poems,
not wrapped in metaphors.
I said them plainly,
straightforward,
unshaken.
And maybe that’s why
I write it now—
not to hide the truth,
but to honor it.
To show you that
even my simplest words
carry weight,
carry intention,
carry you.
Because when I say anything—
whether in ink
or breath—
it’s because I feel it:
every syllable,
every moment,
every piece of you
that I’ve come to love.
Suggested Reads
[Over and Over] A vulnerable, deeply honest poem about choosing someone again and again—despite distance, fear, and the chaos between two very different worlds. Over and Over captures that wild gravity between two people who weren’t meant to collide… yet somehow did.
[The Power You Give Me] A poem about sacred intimacy, quiet devotion, and the kind of connection that feels like sorcery without spells. The Power You Give Me explores how trust, desire, and vulnerability turn touch into magic—and why real power is held by the person who lets you close.
[Carved From Intention] A poem about the quiet, deliberate way I love—and the frustration of being misunderstood. Not all affection is loud or scattered; some of us give ourselves slowly, carefully, and only with intention.
Looking for even more poetry? You can explore everything inThe Library of Ashes.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 