Content warning: contains imagery of revenge and violence. This poem is catharsis and fiction; it does not condone real‑world harm.

Author’s Note

I wrote “Retribution in Shadows” on November 5, 2024 — the afternoon before someone I would come to care about walked into my orbit. At the time it was an experiment in voice: the shield that rises when you’ve watched someone you love be hurt and felt powerless to make it right.

This poem is not an instruction; it is a feeling made language — the visceral, righteous imagining of a protector who chooses the shadowed path of vengeance in fiction because sometimes rage needs a form. It is a confession, a performance, and a prayer for justice that lives in mythic tones rather than real action. Read it as the honest, dark music of someone who would rather break the night than let another sunrise find a bruised heart.

— Rowan Evans

Retribution in Shadows
Poetry by Rowan Evans

When she whispered your name,
Her voice cracked like glass,
Eyes rimmed in sorrow,
Bruises painted like dusk on her skin—
In that moment, I swore your reckoning would begin.

I watched from the shadows,
Your every careless stride,
Studied the rhythms of your ordinary life,
Each step a beat in the dirge of your demise.

And when the night fell thick and soundless,
I cut the power, cloaked in the dark,
Slipped through the cracks you left wide,
Moving like vengeance, swift and stark.

Up the stairs, where silence reigns,
Your breath soft, blissfully blind—
I crept, unseen, your oblivion growing,
My heartbeat a dirge, slow and unkind.

I could see you there, sprawled and serene,
Innocent, unaware of the reckoning near.
I craved the look that would crack your mask,
The flash of terror—the taste of your fear.

For each tear she shed, each silent plea,
I became the weight, the steel, the fire.
Not for mercy, not for grace,
But for the justice of her unwept cries,
A reckoning for wounds unseen by daylight’s gaze.

In the shadows, I am retribution’s breath,
Silent, sharp, and set to descend—
To haunt, to end, to steal your peace,
And let her bruised heart find release.

Closing Note

If this poem shakes something loose in you — anger, sorrow, a memory — you are seen. Creative rage can be a way of naming wrongs; healing often requires more than imagination. Be gentle with yourself. If you need to talk, reach for someone who will listen without minimizing you: a trusted friend, a peer, or a professional. And if you want to sit in the dark with me for a while longer, comment below — I read everything.

— R.