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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: NGCR

  • Copy of a Copy | A Poem About Originality, Authorship & Finding Your Voice

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece started as a diss.

    Or at least that’s what I told myself when I began writing it.

    The voice arrived first: irritated, dismissive, sharp around the edges. The kind of voice that has grown tired of watching imitation mistake itself for originality.

    But as the poem developed, I realized it wasn’t really about a specific person.

    It was about authorship.

    About the difference between influence and imitation.

    Every writer begins by borrowing something. We absorb voices we admire. We study techniques. We experiment with styles that resonate with us. That’s part of learning.

    The problem isn’t influence.

    The problem is stopping there.

    Because eventually every artist reaches a point where imitation becomes a limitation. A point where the question shifts from “Who do I sound like?” to “What do I actually have to say?”

    That’s the tension at the center of this piece.

    The speaker isn’t claiming ownership over Gothic imagery, confession, darkness, anxiety, or any of the themes referenced in the poem. Those things belong to countless writers across generations.

    What can’t be copied is the life underneath them.

    The experiences.

    The scars.

    The specific reasons a person reaches for certain images, metaphors, and obsessions.

    Someone can reproduce the shape of a voice.

    But shape is not source.

    That’s why the final lines matter to me.

    The joke is that the speaker becomes so frustrated with imitation that they offer to write the copy themselves.

    But underneath the sarcasm is a quieter observation:

    If you spend all your time trying to become someone else, you’ll never discover what only you could have written.

    And that’s where the most interesting work usually begins.

    — Rowan Evans

    A glowing handwritten manuscript surrounded by faded copies of the same page on a dark writing desk.
    Influence teaches the craft. Authenticity creates the voice. A copy can mimic the shape, but never the source.

    Copy of a Copy
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    You carry yourself like a killer.
    Yeah, of vibes—
    You think you’re intimidating?
    You’re not. Just stop.
    You’re embarrassing.

    You’ve had
    zero original thoughts,
    you just parrot me.
    You’re a parody.

    A copy of a copy,
    copied a second time—
    it’s obvious in the rhyme,
    you can see it
    in the quality decline.

    Take your pen
    and try to write like me.

    Gothic lace and confession,
    tinted with depression—
    written by an anxious mind.
    You can copy me
    line for line, rhyme for rhyme
    and I’m sure you’ll find
    it still won’t land right.

    Here—
    let me write for you.
    It’s not like
    that’s not something
    I already do.
    But this time,
    I’ll give the lines to you.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Lone Wolf Theology]
    A philosophical pop-culture poem exploring freedom, identity, and self-authorship through the lens of superheroes, antiheroes, mythic archetypes, and personal rebellion. A declaration of autonomy in a world determined to write your story for you.

    [L Words & Heart]
    A playful, self-aware poem about love, longing, loyalty, and the quiet ways another person can reshape our inner world. What begins as humor slowly reveals a heartfelt confession about affection, imagination, and the faces that linger in our dreams.

    [Just Beyond Waking]
    A street that feels familiar. A life that hasn’t happened yet. Just Beyond Waking explores the fragile space between dreams, memory, longing, and the quiet feeling that some futures are already waiting for us.

    [Twin Suns, Sister Moons]
    A poem about distance, longing, and the quiet pull of someone who lives beneath a different sky. Between twin suns and sister moons, the heart keeps reaching for home.

    [It’s You I Choose]
    A poem about devotion, vulnerability, and the quiet decision to stay. Sometimes love isn’t certainty—it is choosing someone anyway.

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

  • Lone Wolf Theology | A Poem About Freedom, Identity & Self-Authorship

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece started as a joke.

    Or at least, it started with the energy of one.

    I was playing with the idea of a character moving through different fictional universes and refusing every invitation offered to them. No Justice League. No Avengers. No X-Men. No Jedi Order. No chosen destiny. No sacred prophecy.

    Just refusal.

    But as I kept writing, something else emerged.

    The more references I added, the less the poem became about superheroes and the more it became about autonomy.

    Because beneath every fictional universe is usually the same question:

    Who decides who you are?

    A team? A title? A destiny? A prophecy? A god? A system?

    Or you?

    That’s where the title comes from.

    “Lone Wolf Theology” isn’t really about isolation. It’s about self-authorship.

    Not the rejection of connection, but the rejection of surrendering your identity to something external. The refusal to let institutions, expectations, labels, or inherited narratives become the sole authority over your life.

    The superheroes, anti-heroes, and mythic references serve as modern archetypes here. They represent power, belonging, destiny, responsibility, faith, rebellion, and purpose. The speaker moves through those worlds, not because they reject what those symbols represent, but because they refuse to let any one of them define them completely.

    At its core, this piece is about choosing your own path.

    Not because it is easier.

    Not because it guarantees success.

    But because there is something sacred about deciding for yourself who you will become.

    And perhaps that is the real theology hidden beneath all the comic books, capes, and cosmic references:

    Freedom is a practice.

    A choice made repeatedly.

    A vow renewed every time the world tries to tell you who you should be.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure standing on a cliff beneath a star-filled sky surrounded by symbols of mythology, destiny, and freedom.
    No prophecy. No chosen order. No inherited destiny. Only the road ahead and the freedom to decide who you become.

    Lone Wolf Theology
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’m a lone wolf, anti‑hero—
    Punisher psychology,
    Frank Castle reality,
    and Deadpool’s mentality.

    Yeah, that’s the fucking recipe.

    Fuck the League (Justice!)
    I don’t need no team,
    there are no Avengers around me.

    I am the evolution of man,
    no X‑Gene. No X team
    in this rhyme scheme.

    I don’t need a Bat‑Signal,
    I light up my own sky.
    Tell Stark I don’t need a suit—
    I’m built different, that’s why.

    Tell Logan I don’t need claws,
    I cut deep with my words.
    Tell Thor I don’t need hammers
    to make thunder heard.

    Fantastic Four?
    I’m fantastic solo.
    Guardians of the Galaxy?
    I guard galaxies dolo.

    Teen Titans?
    I’ve been grown since birth.
    Suicide Squad?
    I don’t need a squad to put you in the dirt.

    Lantern Corps?
    I don’t need a ring to shine.
    I’m the willpower,
    the fear,
    the rage—
    all combined.

    I don’t run with the Speed Force,
    I outrun it.
    Flash chasin’ lightning—
    I become it.

    No timeline can hold me,
    no paradox breaks me.
    Barry hit the wall of time—
    I run through it.

    Spider‑Verse?
    I don’t need a web to connect.
    I cut every thread
    and still command respect.

    Tell Parker I don’t need
    “great power” speeches.
    Tell Miles I don’t need
    a leap of faith to reach this.

    Venom? Carnage?
    I don’t fear their spawn.
    Symbiotes whisper to hosts—
    to me, they speak in song.

    I wear darkness like armor,
    I don’t need it to cling.
    I’m the wolf in the shadows—
    they’re just wearing the skin.

    And the Jedi Order?
    Please.
    I don’t need a council
    to tell me what peace is.

    I don’t need a saber
    to carve out my path.
    I don’t need the Force—
    I am the aftermath.

    No light side.
    No dark side.
    Just my side.
    My creed.
    My theology.

    The lone wolf
    doesn’t join orders—
    he creates one
    by being free.

    In the end,
    there is no order to join,
    no destiny to inherit,
    no prophecy to fulfill.

    There is only the road,
    the breath,
    the choice to rise
    when no one is watching.

    Freedom is not a gift—
    it is a vow whispered in the dark.
    And I keep it.
    Always.

    So write this
    in the margins of every myth:
    I owe nothing to the crowns of men
    or the councils of gods.

    I walk the line between fate and defiance,
    and I do not break—
    I bend the world around me.

    If destiny comes calling,
    tell it to knock louder.
    I don’t follow prophecy.
    I make it bleed
    until it follows me.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [L Words & Heart]
    A playful, self-aware poem about love, longing, loyalty, and the quiet ways another person can reshape our inner world. What begins as humor slowly reveals a heartfelt confession about affection, imagination, and the faces that linger in our dreams.

    [Just Beyond Waking]
    A street that feels familiar. A life that hasn’t happened yet. Just Beyond Waking explores the fragile space between dreams, memory, longing, and the quiet feeling that some futures are already waiting for us.

    [Twin Suns, Sister Moons]
    A poem about distance, longing, and the quiet pull of someone who lives beneath a different sky. Between twin suns and sister moons, the heart keeps reaching for home.

    [It’s You I Choose]
    A poem about devotion, vulnerability, and the quiet decision to stay. Sometimes love isn’t certainty—it is choosing someone anyway.

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

  • L Words & Heart | A Poem About Love, Longing, Loyalty & Being Seen

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece began as a joke.

    Or at least, I thought it did.

    The opening voice is intentionally playful—awkward, self‑deprecating, a little chaotic, prone to wandering off into side comments before finding its way back again. In many ways, it feels closer to how I actually think than some of my more polished or serious pieces.

    But underneath the humor is something sincere.

    I’ve never been particularly good at saying important things directly. Sometimes vulnerability arrives disguised as a joke. Sometimes affection hides behind wordplay. Sometimes the safest way to admit what you’re feeling is to make someone laugh first.

    The title comes from a simple realization: when I think about certain people, my thoughts tend to orbit the same things.

    Love. Longing. Loyalty.

    The L words.

    And heart.

    The final section is intentionally quieter than everything that comes before it. The jokes fall away, the distractions disappear, and what remains is the truth the speaker was circling the entire time: the way another person can take up space in your imagination, your creativity, and your inner world long before they ever occupy the same physical space.

    Sometimes affection doesn’t arrive as grand declarations.

    Sometimes it arrives as a face that appears when you close your eyes.
    A voice you hear in silence.
    A shoreline you keep finding in your dreams.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure standing on a moonlit shoreline while waves roll in beneath a dreamy twilight sky.
    Some people arrive in your thoughts quietly—then somehow become part of every dream, every poem, and every beat of your heart.

    L Words & Heart
    Poetry by Rowan Evan

    I’m just a quirky, mother—
    not a fighter, but a lover.
    I’m not brave or whatever,
    I bite tongues,
    holding words like lips
    with padlocks.

    I’ve never been a fan of change,
    but I want things to change—
    I want my life rearranged,
    I want to be seen as normal
    not strange—
    I want to be me
    and accepted,
    because I’m not as strange
    as you think—
    I’ve seen Stranger Things.

    (Actually, no I haven’t.
    I never got into the show.
    But I digress…)

    I’ve got things I want to say,
    got things I want you to know.

    When I think about you
    it’s all L words and heart,
    you reshaped my art.
    So I close my eyes
    and I see your face.
    In silence, I hear your voice—
    and in dreams I walk your shores.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Just Beyond Waking]
    A street that feels familiar. A life that hasn’t happened yet. Just Beyond Waking explores the fragile space between dreams, memory, longing, and the quiet feeling that some futures are already waiting for us.

    [Twin Suns, Sister Moons]
    A poem about distance, longing, and the quiet pull of someone who lives beneath a different sky. Between twin suns and sister moons, the heart keeps reaching for home.

    [It’s You I Choose]
    A poem about devotion, vulnerability, and the quiet decision to stay. Sometimes love isn’t certainty—it is choosing someone anyway.

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

  • Just Beyond Waking | A Poem About Dreams, Destiny, and Future Love

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece came from the feeling of recognizing something before you fully understand it.

    Not memory exactly.
    Not déjà vu.
    Something softer and stranger than that.

    I’ve always been fascinated by those moments where emotion arrives before explanation—when a place, a person, or a feeling seems deeply familiar even though you know you’ve never truly experienced it before. Like your mind is brushing against a future version of your life before you’ve physically reached it.

    That became the emotional center of this poem.

    The shifting between bedroom and street, dream and waking, reality and unreality, was meant to feel unstable on purpose. I wanted the speaker to exist in that liminal space where certainty dissolves and longing becomes vivid enough to feel almost tangible.

    Humidity became important while writing too. It creates this physical heaviness throughout the piece—something atmospheric and emotional at the same time. The world feels thick with anticipation, almost electrically alive, as if reality itself is trying to push through the veil separating possibility from arrival.

    And then there’s the ending.

    What mattered to me most was that the final realization isn’t framed as destiny in some grand cosmic sense. It’s quieter than that. More human.

    Not:
    “I remembered her.”

    But:
    “I’m becoming someone capable of reaching that life.”

    That distinction changes everything.

    Because the poem ultimately isn’t about escaping reality.

    It’s about slowly awakening into a future version of yourself that already exists somewhere just beyond fear, distance, uncertainty, and waiting.

    And sometimes the first glimpse of that future arrives like a dream before it arrives like a life.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure stands on a humid city street as a woman emerges through a dreamlike haze of light and atmosphere.
    Some futures arrive first as dreams, waiting quietly just beyond waking.

    Just Beyond Waking
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I stood on an unfamiliar street,
    feeling unfamiliar heat—
    skin sweat‑slick.
    I was lost in thought,
    stuck in that spot.
    The air around me buzzed,
    electric with the hum
    of life moving past.

    I’ve felt this before—
    but was it
    dream or memory?
    I don’t know.
    Can’t be sure
    anymore.

    Vision shifts as I drift,
    street fading into bedroom walls.
    The bustling street’s noise—
    just music in my headphones.
    Blink and I’m back again,
    don’t know what to think,
    don’t know what’s happening.

    Back on that unfamiliar street,
    I feel the pull creep—
    so I begin to move my feet,
    one step and then another,
    one foot and then the other.

    Reality is shifting,
    I’m losing grip—
    I’m slipping.
    Don’t know what’s the dream,
    and what’s me
    awakening.

    I trip and stumble,
    almost tumble into the street—
    catch myself at the last second,
    clutching the wall
    as if I might drift away.

    Then I hear it.
    A sound, an echo—
    a voice piercing the silence.
    Eyes scan the room
    as humidity creeps
    across my skin.

    I struggle
    to pull in a breath,
    and again
    the sounds of the city
    surround me.
    Again I’m back
    on that same street—

    but I’m no longer alone.

    As my eyes focus,
    slowly she comes into view.
    A gentle smile
    spreads across her lips—
    a soft touch on my arm,
    a line traced by her fingertips.

    The city hums around us,
    alive, waiting.
    And something in her silence
    steadies the world—
    not familiar,
    but right.
    Not remembered,
    but meant.

    And in that moment
    I understand—
    this isn’t memory,
    isn’t dream,
    but the first soft glimpse
    of a life
    I’m still walking toward,
    waiting for me
    just beyond waking.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Twin Suns, Sister Moons]
    A poem about distance, longing, and the quiet pull of someone who lives beneath a different sky. Between twin suns and sister moons, the heart keeps reaching for home.

    [It’s You I Choose]
    A poem about devotion, vulnerability, and the quiet decision to stay. Sometimes love isn’t certainty—it is choosing someone anyway.

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

  • Twin Suns, Sister Moons | A Poem About Distance, Longing, and Shared Skies

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece began with distance.

    Not just physical distance, but the strange emotional distance that forms when two people exist beneath different skies, different suns, different versions of the same moon.

    I found myself thinking about how science fiction—especially something like Star Wars—often uses planets and galaxies to talk about deeply human feelings: isolation, longing, escape, hope, belonging.

    That became the emotional framework for this poem.

    Tatooine and Coruscant aren’t just locations here. They represent emotional states. One is harsh survival. The other feels alive with possibility. The movement between them became a way of talking about wanting closeness badly enough that even entire worlds begin to feel traversable.

    The twin suns imagery mattered to me especially because it captures contradiction so well: existing in two emotional spaces at once, living beneath one sky while mentally reaching toward another.

    There’s also a quiet tension running through the piece between time and distance. The longer you care about someone far away, the more those concepts start blending together. Waiting becomes geography. Time zones become emotional landscapes. Even sunrise and moonrise begin carrying emotional weight.

    At its core, this poem is about gravitational pull.

    About the people who make “elsewhere” start feeling more like home than the place you currently stand.

    And about the quiet ache of wanting to bridge impossible distances anyway.

    — Rowan Evans

    A desert landscape beneath twin suns with a distant city glowing under a rising moon.
    Between your sky and mine, my heart keeps searching for the distance between us.

    Twin Suns, Sister Moons
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Sun lit skies—

    it’s sunrise,
    and I open my eyes
    already lost in thought.
    Believe it or not,
    it’s you I’m thinking of.

    Time—
    the quiet ticking
    of the clock.
    Seconds turn to minutes,
    minutes to hours—
    but time is also distance.

    The distance between
    my sun and yours,
    between two versions
    of the moon.

    And I’m stuck
    living between both.
    Under my sky,
    and by yours—

    Tatooine days
    under twin suns
    and sister moons—

    You make me
    want to escape this place,
    outer rim to the core worlds—
    desert to the city,
    Tatooine to Coruscant.

    I want to make
    your sky mine—

    share in your sun’s shine,
    make your moon
    the centerpiece
    for our nights.

    Moon lit skies—

    the moon rises,
    quiet and patient,
    and I feel it again—
    that pull toward you,
    toward elsewhere,
    toward the place
    my heart keeps trying to reach.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [It’s You I Choose]
    A poem about devotion, vulnerability, and the quiet decision to stay. Sometimes love isn’t certainty—it is choosing someone anyway.

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

  • It’s You I Choose | A Poem About Love, Loyalty, and Choosing Someone Again

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem started with a voice.

    Not a theme. Not an image. Not a grand idea.

    Just a voice already halfway through a conversation.

    The kind of conversation where someone teases you, calls you crazy, and instead of defending yourself, you laugh because you’ve heard it before.

    A lot of my writing tends to be emotionally heavy, layered, symbolic, or wrapped in larger metaphors. This piece isn’t trying to do any of that.

    It’s intentionally conversational.

    A little sarcastic. A little self-aware. A little chaotic.

    Which, if I’m being honest, isn’t that far removed from how I actually talk.

    What interested me while writing it was the difference between being called strange and being comfortable enough with yourself to stop treating that as an insult.

    The speaker isn’t arguing for normalcy.

    They’re not saying, “No, I’m not weird.”

    They’re basically saying:

    “Yeah. Maybe I am. And?”

    That confidence becomes important because it creates space for the real confession waiting underneath the jokes.

    The poem begins as a defense of individuality, but it ends as a statement of devotion.

    Not because the speaker suddenly becomes serious, but because sincerity sneaks in when they’re not looking.

    And that’s probably my favorite kind of honesty.

    The kind that arrives accidentally.

    The kind that slips past the defenses.

    The kind that shows up disguised as a joke before quietly admitting:

    Of all the people in the world, you’re the one I’d choose.

    — Rowan Evans

    Two people sharing a quiet late-night conversation while sunrise begins to glow through a nearby window.
    Sometimes love is not certainty. Sometimes it’s simply choosing someone, again and again.

    It’s You I Choose
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Here we sit, you and I
    deep in conversation—

    you say, “you’re insane,”
    I say “perfectly.”
    Got it tatted on my arm,
    as a reminder—

    I might struggle
    with my mental health,
    but I’m still perfectly myself.

    It’s a pillar
    of my personality.

    They say I’m strange,
    yeah, well I might be.
    That feels highly likely.

    Loyal to a fault—
    line snaps.
    But my devotion
    is unshakeable.

    What I’m trying to say is—

    maybe
    I am crazy,
    but baby—
    it’s you I choose,
    it’s you I couldn’t
    stand to lose.

    Journey into Hexverse…

    [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]

  • Whisper Me Across — A Poem of Devotion, Haunting, and Sacred Presence | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem carries pieces of a real exchange—one spark of truth that ignited the rest. Whisper Me Across is half confession, half invocation: a conversation remembered, reimagined, and rewritten in the language of devotion. Reality is the match; the poem is the flame.

    — Rowan Evans

    “Two ethereal figures reaching for each other through mist and moonlight, symbolizing devotion and spiritual connection.”
    An echo of devotion that lingers across worlds.

    Whisper Me Across
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I know we’ve joked about this—
    tossed it around in little quips,
    laughing so we wouldn’t feel
    the weight beneath it.
    But I have a genuine request.

    If you pass,
    promise you’ll haunt me.
    Be the knock in the wall,
    the whistle in the breeze—
    the chill of air that drifts in
    and brushes against my cheek.

    Promise you’ll let me know you’re there.
    Don’t leave me wondering,
    don’t make me question.
    If you want me to survive it,
    you’ll have to give me a sign—
    because I would happily die
    just to cross over and meet you
    on the other side.

    And I promise the same.
    I’ll be the voice you hear
    leaning into your ear,
    quietly saying your name.
    I’ll be the presence that settles
    behind your ribs
    when you feel a sudden surge of strength
    and choose to push through.
    That will be me—
    still with you.

    I’ll be the voice that pushes back
    each time you falter.
    When you think you’re not worthy,
    not worth it—
    I’ll be the whisper that refuses
    to let that take root.
    Speaking free,
    folding into your thoughts,
    reminding you
    of your worth.

    Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in [The Library of Ashes].

  • Shape Me — A Neo-Gothic Confessional Poem About Devotion, Intimacy & Sacred Surrender

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    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

    “Gothic silhouettes intertwined in fire and smoke, one shaping the other in a scene of sacred intimacy and devotion.”
    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.

    Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in The Library of Ashes.