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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Poetic Horror

  • The Hunted | A Gothic Horror Poem of Predators, Moonlight, and Inevitable Doom

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    The Hunted is about inevitability—the moment when fear stops being chaos and becomes certainty. Set beneath an unforgiving moon, this poem leans into isolation, communal helplessness, and the quiet terror of knowing you are seen. Sometimes horror isn’t about escape or survival, but about the instant when the night decides you are already chosen.

    A blood-red moon over dark fields as shadowy predators surround a lone figure at night.
    Some nights don’t chase you. They wait.

    The Hunted
    Poerty by B.D. Nightshade

    Beneath the blood-red Oklahoma moon,
    The wind whispered tales of an impending doom.
    Fields lay barren, shadows stretched thin,
    And in the silence, the hunt would begin.

    From the corners of dusk, they came like smoke,
    Slipping through the dark where nights breath spoke.
    Fangs gleamed like daggers, their eyes burned bright,
    Predators cloaked in the velvet of night.

    The townsfolk prayed, but the prayers fell hollow,
    For shadows were swift, and death would follow.
    Doors were barred, yet whispers slipped through—
    A scream cut short; the hunters withdrew.

    In alleys and homes, the carnage grew thick,
    Their hunger unyielding, their movements quick.
    Lifeless bodies, pale and drained,
    Crimson rivers where innocence waned.

    Yet one remained, a flickering light,
    A soul still standing in the heart of the night.
    Surrounded by eyes like coal aglow,
    Faces twisted, predators’ tableau.

    Breath hitched, heartbeat a deafening sound,
    As they closed in, encircling their ground.
    The air was heavy, laden with dread,
    As the hunted whispered, “Soon, I’ll be dead.”

    The moon, a witness to the fatal plight,
    Bathed the scene in unholy light.
    The hunted stood, with resolve so grim,
    Facing the abyss, staring back at them.

    In that moment, the night seemed to pause,
    A final rebellion against nature’s laws.
    And as the predators moved to consume,
    The hunted vanished, swallowed by gloom.

    Oklahoma sleeps, but the tale remains—
    A town once bathed in blood-red stains.
    For where shadows creep and darkness grows,
    The hunted’s story is one the wind still blows.

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

  • The Many Rooms – A Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism Journey by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    The Many Rooms is a dark fairytale of the mind, where every shadow, whisper, and creak reflects the fears and truths we carry within. Each room is a mirror of the self—haunting, twisted, and unforgettable.

    Step carefully. Some doors lead to fear, others to understanding—but all leave their mark.

    — Rowan Evans

    Haunting gothic mansion interior with shadows, cobwebs, and a grand mirror reflecting a mysterious ethereal figure.
    The Many Rooms – a dark, lyrical journey through the haunted corridors of memory and desire.

    The Many Rooms
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    In a mansion vast, of endless halls,
    Where shadows dance on ancient walls,
    I wander lost, through doors unknown,
    In chambers dark, where horrors are sown.

    A creak, a whisper, the floorboards sigh,
    As candle flames flicker, shadows multiply,
    The scent of mildew, damp and cold,
    Hangs in the air, with tales untold.

    Each room a new and twisted sight,
    In corners lurk the things of night,
    The wallpaper peels, a sickly green,
    Revealing faces, warped and keen.

    I tread on carpets, thick with dust,
    Beneath my feet, they seem to thrust,
    A musty odor, stale and old,
    Whispers secrets, dark and bold.

    A grand piano, silent, still,
    Its keys unplayed, a bitter chill,
    But when I pass, a haunting note,
    Rings out, as if a ghostly throat.

    Cobwebs cling, a silken snare,
    Their touch like ice, a frozen lair,
    The spiders scuttle, legs a-flurry,
    My pulse quickens, in rising hurry.

    Portraits hang with eyes that leer,
    Their painted gaze instills a fear,
    I hear them whisper, voices thin,
    “Why have you come? What lies within?”

    Through corridors, I race and run,
    From horrors past, and those to come,
    The walls they pulse, like living skin,
    A labyrinth, my mind within.

    A library, vast, with books that moan,
    Their pages turn, a chilling tone,
    The leather bindings, cracked and old,
    Release a scent, of rot and mold.

    Hands reach out from shadows deep,
    Their touch is cold, I start to weep,
    “Am I awake, or in a dream?”
    I ask myself, as senses scream.

    A nursery, with toys that move,
    Their eyes are black, their smiles a groove,
    They beckon, with hands of wax,
    To join their games, with twisted tracks.

    The dining hall, with feast decayed,
    The banquet’s smell, a rancid parade,
    Maggots crawl in silver bowls,
    A grotesque scene, that chills my soul.

    I stumble through, my mind a haze,
    Each room a trap, a twisted maze,
    “Is this my fate, to wander lost?”
    I ask myself, at what cost?

    The final door, with hinges rusted,
    I push it open, breath is busted,
    Inside I see, a mirror grand,
    Reflecting back a shadowed land.

    My own face stares, but not my eyes,
    A stranger’s gaze, with dark surprise,
    “Who are you?” I ask the glass,
    A voice replies, from ages past.

    “I am your fear, your deepest dread,
    The many rooms, within your head,
    Each door you passed, each fear you faced,
    A part of you, that can’t be erased.”

    I fall to knees, a cry, a scream,
    “Is this the end, or just a dream?”
    The mansion echoes with my wail,
    In endless rooms, I leave my trail.

    For in the dark, the shadows loom,
    Each room a fear, a whispered doom,
    I wander still, through night and day,
    In many rooms, I’ve lost my way.

    If you enjoyed your journey through The Many Rooms, I invite you to wander further into the cathedral of my mind in The Library of Ashes.