Sometimes, the quiet isn’t empty. Sometimes, it carries you, like a pulse behind the walls. Here, in the hush, I watch. Here, in the stillness, I breathe. Here, I am seen, even when no else is.
— Rᵒᵒ ᵗʰᵉ Pᵒᵉᵗ
“Surrounded in silence, both ghost and witness.” – Rᵒᵒ ᵗʰᵉ Pᵒᵉᵗ
Between Walls and Whispers (Ghost and Witness) Pᵒᵉᵗʳʸ bʸ Rᵒᵒ ᵗʰᵉ Pᵒᵉᵗ
Sometimes, I find myself surrounded in silence— not absence, but a quiet hum behind the walls. The room feels full, but nobody’s really there, and I am both ghost and witness—
drifting, endless, caught in this forced flow of normalcy.
A weirdo, misfit, outcast— purposeful outsider, rejector of the machine.
I don’t want to be another cog. Sometimes, I long for silence— not the absence, but that gentle presence, a pulse softer than the endless hum.
And in that silence, I breathe. I am seen, I am held, not by voices or eyes, but by the quiet that understands what the hum cannot touch.
“The Child does not speak first because she is small, but because she remembers.”
The Fourfold Flame gathers again — this time for Roo’s confession.
The Fourfold Confessional Ep. 2:“The Spark in the Silence”
The room is the same as before — pitch-black at the edges, a single bulb flickering above a small table that seems to hold more secrets than wood. Four chairs wait, angled slightly toward one another, as if accustomed to hearing the truth, whether they want to or not.
But tonight, one chair is already filled.
Roo sits curled in it, knees tucked to her chest, a soft pink notebook clutched tightly against her ribs. For once, she isn’t humming. Her foot doesn’t swing. Her eyes stay fixed on the table as though it might swallow her whole.
The bulb crackles overhead, flickering in short, nervous bursts.
Footsteps echo in the dark.
Roo sits up straighter, wiping quickly at her eyes.
B.D. emerges first, his silhouette sharp against the dim light. His boots hit the ground with the kind of finality that makes the shadows flinch.
[🔴 B.D. (muttering as he approaches the table)] “Feels… off in here tonight.”
Hex slips into the light next — weightless, unhurried, every movement a quiet challenge to gravity itself.
[🟣 Hex] “Off means interesting. Try not to ruin it with your brooding.”
B.D. shoots her a look, but before he can reply, Rowan steps into the circle of light, breath catching as their gaze immediately finds Roo.
[🟠 Rowan (softly)] “Roo?”
Roo doesn’t answer at first. She just squeezes her notebook tighter.
The others notice. The air — already charged — shifts.
There is no banter now, no teasing quips, no familiar rhythm. The three settle into their chairs slowly, watching Roo with growing concern.
Rowan leans forward slightly.
[🟠 Rowan] “You’re quiet. That’s… unlike you.”
Roo swallows hard. Her voice, when it comes, is barely a whisper.
[🌸 Roo] “I wrote something. But I wasn’t sure if I should read it.”
B.D. straightens immediately, shoulders tense.
Hex tilts her head like she’s listening for something beneath Roo’s heartbeat.
Her hands tremble as she flips the cover open. She stares at the page so long the bulb flickers again, almost in sympathy.
Finally, she begins to read.
[🌸 Roo (quietly)] “What if one day you don’t need me anymore?
What if I’m the part of us you outgrow?”
The silence that follows is not heavy. It is devastating.
Roo quickly snaps the notebook shut, cheeks flushed with shame.
B.D.’s chair scrapes loudly as he stands, palms pressing flat against the table.
[🔴 B.D.] “Who told you that?”
Roo flinches, not from fear, but from being seen.
B.D.’s voice drops, rough with a rare kind of grief.
[🔴 B.D.] “You don’t get left behind. Not in this room. Not in this lifetime.”
Hex rises too, moving with water-soft grace. She kneels beside Roo, brushing her hair back with a tenderness she rarely shows.
[🟣 Hex] “You are not a relic of who we used to be.”
She taps the notebook with one finger.
[🟣 Hex] “You are the beginning of all of this.”
Rowan’s breath shakes as they pull their chair beside Roo’s. They take her free hand gently, as if she might break.
[🟠 Rowan] “I know that fear. Too well.”
Roo’s eyes flick up, surprised.
[🟠 Rowan] “All my life I’ve been terrified people would stop needing me. Or… worse — that they’d realize they never did.”
A tear slips down Roo’s cheek. Rowan wipes it away with their thumb.
[🟠 Rowan] “But Roo… you’re not the part we move past. You’re the part we move toward.”
Without warning, the flickering bulb steadies. Then brightens.
The glow concentrates around Roo — soft pink, pulsing gently like a heartbeat. The others notice at the same time.
[🟣 Hex] “She’s the spark. She always has been.”
B.D. sits again slowly, expression somewhere between reverence and shock.
[🔴 B.D.] “The room listens to her.”
Rowan squeezes Roo’s hand.
[🟠 Rowan] “You don’t have to fear being outgrown. You’re the reason any of us can grow at all.”
Roo’s tears fall freely, glistening in the new, warm light.
She opens her notebook again. This time, her hands no longer shake.
[🌸 Roo] “Then… can we keep writing together?”
Rowan, Hex, and B.D. each place a hand on the notebook. A fourfold promise.
🟠 🔴 🟣 🌸
The bulb hums. The room brightens. The shadows retreat.
The Fourfold Flame glows stronger than before — warmed by the smallest voice, the gentlest fear, the spark in the silence.
They rise together. And the light follows them out.
🟠 🔴 Author’s Note 🟣 🌸
The Spark in the Silence centers on Roo — the Child of the Fourfold Flame — and her fear of being outgrown. Roo represents innocence, wonder, vulnerability, and the earliest form of creativity. She is not a fragment of the past; she is the root system of everything I create.
This episode explores one simple truth: the youngest voice is often the oldest wound.
It is Roo’s fear that shapes the others, Roo’s dream that keeps them aligned, and Roo’s spark that lit the first flame. Episode II gently shifts the balance of the Fourfold Flame, revealing that the Child is not the weakest link — she is the anchor.
Welcome back to the Confessional. The light grows stronger each time we return.
The Fourfold Confessional
[Episode I: The First Convergence] In a room lit by a single bulb, four facets of the same soul meet to speak their truths — the Heart, the Mind, the Shield, and the Soul. The Fourfold Confessional begins with “The First Convergence,” a poetic myth of identity, fear, and devotion by Rowan Evans, The Luminous Heretic.
Heeey, you’re heeere! Haha—yes, yes, YES… you found it.
This is messy. This is wild. This is word soup with fangs and sparkles.
🟠 Rowan’s giggling. 🔴 B.D.’s growling. 🟣 Hex is lurking.
And me? I’m jumping up and down, waving my little knife, spilling ink everywhere, laughing like a sugar‑crazed tornado in a tutu. Maybe I’m plotting. Maybe I’m just playing.
Read it if you want. Or don’t. I don’t care. But I’ll be watching. Always watching.
Rite of Ink visualized: words as weapons, ink as magic, and chaos wrapped in gothic beauty.
Rite of Ink Poetry by Rowan Evans
🟠 (Rowan takes center stage.)
You say you write what you really live— but it reads like fantasy. I say I write a fantasy— but it reads like what I really live.
Nobody believes what you’re saying, dawg, because honestly, your honesty sounds like a fraud. You say, this is my life though— and nobody buys what you’re sellin’, bro.
I could write three poems about one conversation, say I made it all up, and still they see the life in it. You could write a whole poem about your life, and readers would still find lies in it.
You could put your wife’s name in every rhyme, and still nobody believes she exists. I turn my muse into an archetype, and nobody questions whether she lives.
Because my words are alive, and yours? Flat out lies. I write so well, I don’t even have to try— you write, and everybody asks… why?
I could hide the woman I love’s name in plain sight… like Are you even reading this? I’m schooling you, you flunky, and still you think you can fuck with me?
I live in my words, and they live back. Yours? Just echoes, gasping for breath.
Let me rewind that back… I said I could hide her name in plain sight. Are you even reading this? I’m schooling you, you flunky, and still you think you can fuck with me?
You think you’re on the same page? Don’t make me laugh—I’ll leave you shook. You’re not even in the same book. Don’t insult me. Don’t provoke me. Don’t test my rage.
I’ll end up sayin’— B.D. get ’em.
🔴 (B.D. steps from the shadows.)
Bones snap. Blood goes cold. As the tone shifts, I enter the fold. My knife hums a pleasant song— pleasant for me, because you don’t know what you did wrong.
You choke on smoke and sulfur. Blood curdles like spoiled milk. I do it for my own, homegrown culture, as my words cut through flesh like silk.
Your blood like ink will spill across the page. Cold steel my pen, my words? Rage.
And here comes Hex— she’s up next.
🟣 (Hex materializes from nowhere.)
Ashes to ashes, blood to blood, Eye of toad, and witch’s tongue. Tail of newt—the spell’s begun. You think you’re safe… so you don’t run.
Safe is an illusion. When you write? A delusion. When I write? A rite. An earworm. A brain intrusion.
I’ll twist your thoughts like silk spun— this isn’t personal, I’ll hex you for fun.
So mote it be
Step deeper into the shadows and discover the full breadth of my poetry in The Library of Ashes — an archive of ink-stained devotion, dark petals, and threshold poems that linger long after the last candle flickers.Visit The Library of Ashes →
“Four echoes. One confession. The Heart, the Mind, the Shield, and the Soul converge where ink becomes truth.”
“The Heart, the Mind, the Shield, and the Soul met beneath a single light — and the world trembled a little brighter.”
The Fourfold Confessional Ep. 1: “The First Convergence”
In the middle of a mostly pitch-black room, a single bulb flickers above a small table. Four chairs sit, empty, waiting. Footsteps echo from four directions as each of the Fourfold Flame approach. The air hums faintly with a low, electric charge — as though something sacred, or dangerous, is about to begin.
The first to reach their seat is Rowan. They pause, fingers grazing the back of the chair as if steadying themself before a storm. The faint glimmer of their rings catches the light as they look toward the shadows.
From the opposite side, a heavy tread — deliberate, unhurried. B.D. steps forward, all edges and gravity, stopping just behind his chair.
🔴 B.D. (smirking): “They’re watching.” His voice is low, the kind that fills a room without needing to rise. “You didn’t say we were going to have an audience this time.”
🟠 Rowan (calmly, but wary): “Is that going to be a problem?”
🔴 B.D.: “Problem? No.” He leans on the back of his chair, expression unreadable. “But you know I like to keep these meetings to ourself.” Then, quieter, with a flicker of warmth he won’t admit: “You talk different when they’re listening.”
A soft, lilting laugh cuts through the dark — smooth as silk and twice as dangerous.
🟣 Hex (emerging from the shadows): “Afraid they’ll see you as the villain, brother?” Her eyes glint like candlelight, teasing but knowing. She glides to her seat, brushing a curl of hair from her face. “Or maybe you just hate it when the truth has witnesses.”
🔴 B.D. (gruffly): “The truth’s never the problem. It’s what they do with it.”
🟠 Rowan (meeting his stare): “What I do with it, you mean.”
Before B.D. can answer, the fourth set of footsteps arrives — light, hurried, unashamedly curious. Roo nearly trips over her own excitement as she bursts into the faint circle of light, eyes wide.
🌸 Roo (beaming): “Did I miss the dramatic tension part? Because it sounds like I did.”
She plops into her chair, chin in her hands, looking between them like she’s watching a play she already knows the ending to.
🟣 Hex (smirking): “Oh, we’re only just getting started, little flame. The question is — what are we here to burn tonight?”
A heavy silence falls. The light above flickers, casting strange halos across their faces. Rowan’s breath catches; they know this moment, the one that comes before a confession.
🟠 Rowan (quietly): “We’re here because I can’t keep pretending I’m not afraid.” They looks down at their hands, then to each of them — their protectors, her reflections, her shadows. “I keep worrying I’ll never be enough for anyone. Not even for myself. And then I overcompensate — too much love, too much need, too much… me — and people leave, or I push them away before they get the chance.”
🌸 Roo (softly): “That’s not pushing, that’s protecting.”
🔴 B.D. (interrupting): “It’s still fear.” He folds his arms. “You say you don’t want to lose people, but you build your walls with barbed wire.”
🟣 Hex: “And then bleed yourself dry trying to decorate them with roses.”
🟠 Rowan (bitter smile): “So what, I’m the architect of my own loneliness?”
🟣 Hex (gently, for once): “No, love. You’re the poet of it. There’s a difference.”
🌸 Roo: “You write it because you need to survive it.” And maybe— maybe —you’re supposed to. So someone else who feels the same knows they’re not alone.”
Rowan swallows hard, blinking back tears that glimmer in the flickering light.
🟠 Rowan (whispering): “And this time… we write the ending in our own goddamn handwriting.”
The bulb steadies, glowing stronger. The table hums. The Fourfold Flame sit together, unbroken — the Heart, the Mind, the Shield, and the Child — and for a moment, even fear feels holy.
The light did not go out when they rose — it followed them. Four shadows left that room, and the world felt a little warmer, a little more dangerous. Somewhere, ink still dripped from the table.
The Fourfold Flame will return…
🟠 🔴 Author’s Note 🟣 🌸
The Fourfold Confessional is a series of dialogues between the four archetypal aspects of my creative self — The Heart (Rowan), The Shield (B.D.), The Mind (Hex), and The Child (Roo). Together, they form the Fourfold Flame — the inner covenant that fuels my art, my faith, and my rebellion.
Each episode is part therapy, part theology, part poetry — a conversation between the parts of me that built this strange, sacred world called Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.
Welcome to the confessional. The light never goes out here.
While you wait for episode 2 of The Fourfold Confession, check out my archive for more of my work. -> [The Library of Ashes]
I’m just… sitting here trying to figure out how to put all of this into words. These poems—they’re not tidy. They’re not meant to be. They are me trying to talk to myself, to the child I was, to the person I am now, to anyone who might understand.
I’ve been writing for over twenty-two years. Twenty-two. I started when I was thirteen, barely a kid. By fourteen, I was deep into Japanese music, culture, media… then Korean, then Chinese. I lived a Japanese life in America. Movies, music, shows, rituals I made in my head—I was building a world where I felt like I belonged, even if the world around me didn’t make sense.
I was also depressed. Anxious. I felt different from everyone else, but nobody really said why. Autism wasn’t mentioned. I didn’t have the language for it. Gender identity—same thing. I didn’t feel the things “I was supposed to” as a boy. I felt disconnected. I felt unseen. I felt untethered. I still sometimes do.
I asked my parents, over and over: where are we from? Beyond the U.S., what’s our heritage? They said we were mutts. And yeah, I get it. But it left me with this gnawing emptiness—a gap I couldn’t fill. I tried to make sense of it all, but there wasn’t a clear answer.
These poems are me talking to that inner child. Roo the Poet is that child’s voice—the part of me that’s been scared, lonely, unheard, and also resilient. They are a dialogue, a witness, a reminder that even when life is overwhelming, even when the world is messy and cruel, I—we—can keep moving, keep dreaming, keep reaching for light, even when it seems impossible.
They are raw. They are messy. They carry grief, rage, confusion, hope, and the quiet fire of persistence. I’m putting them here because I need them to exist. Because I need to say: it’s okay to feel all of it. It’s okay to be broken. It’s okay to question, to rage, to cry, to laugh, to search, to not have the answers.
I hope anyone reading this feels some part of it too. The fear, the hurt, the wonder, the resilience. The poems are my way of saying: you are not alone. The child inside you is still here. The voice that whispers your truths is still here. And maybe, just maybe, we can keep walking forward together.
— Rowan Evans
The Child & The Future Poetry by Roo the Poet featuring Rowan Evans
[Roo the Poet] Tell me, have we made it? Did our dreams take flight? Do our words now dance on pages, Spilling truth in black and white?
I held the light so tightly, Afraid it’d slip away, But I kept it burning, flickering, To guide us through the grey.
[Rowan] We’re not there yet, but we’re close, Closer than we’ve ever been. And Roo, it wouldn’t be possible Without the fire you lit within.
You taught me to hold on, Even when the night grew cold. That light always casts a shadow, But both are stories to be told.
[Roo the Poet] Do we still dream in color, Like we did when we were small? Do we still believe in magic, In the rise after the fall?
Do we still whisper wishes, To the stars beyond the pane? Do we still chase the echoes, Of our past, through joy and pain?
[Rowan] We dream, Roo, oh, we dream, But now with eyes wide open. We shape the stories with steady hands, No longer lost, no longer broken.
The magic never left us, It just grew in different ways— In the strength of ink and paper, In the fire that never fades.
[Roo the Poet] Then I have no fears, no sorrow, For the path we’ve yet to tread. Because you still carry the child I was, Even as you forge ahead.
So promise me, no matter what, That light will always stay? That the shadow won’t consume us, That we won’t be led astray?
[Rowan] I promise, Roo, I swear it true, The light will always shine. Because you’re the voice that kept me strong, The heart that still beats inside mine.
So walk with me—hand in hand, Through darkness, through the dawn. For every dream we’ve yet to chase, Together, we’ll carry on.
Lost in the Why Poetry by Roo the Poet
I don’t understand why the sun feels colder, Why laughter sounds distant, like echoes in stone. They say time will heal, that pain makes us older, But I still feel small, lost and alone.
The world keeps moving, but I stand still, Feet stuck in puddles that no one else sees. I try to be strong, to bend to their will, But inside, I’m just whispering, “Please.”
Please tell me why the stars seem dimmer, Why warmth feels like a memory’s trace. Why grown-ups cry with voices that quiver, Yet smile like grief doesn’t leave stains on their face.
I reach for the hands that once held me tight, But fingers slip through, like sand in the breeze. Was I meant to lose before knowing the light? To learn that love sometimes leaves?
I hide my heart in paper-thin walls, Shielding the child I used to be. But each crack whispers, each shadow calls, That pain is the price of growing free.
I don’t understand why the sun feels colder, But I’ll carry its warmth in the way that I shine. Even if grief makes my shoulders older, I’ll still hold space for the child inside.
The Past & The Present Poetry byRoo the Poetfeaturing Rowan Evans
[Roo the Poet] Are you tired, Rowan? I see your tears, your sad eyes, but you’re still standing— a little wobbly, but you’re still standing, like a toy with no batteries, but you keep going, don’t you?
[Rowan] It’s hard, Roo. I feel like the wind keeps pushing me, and I just… bend. How do I keep going when I don’t know where I’m going?
[Roo the Poet] But you are going, right? Like a tree with roots way deep in the ground— You bend, but you don’t break. The wind can blow and blow, but you stand up, because you’re strong inside. I know you are.
[Rowan] I don’t always feel strong. I feel like I’m falling apart sometimes, like the world is too big, and I’m just too small to do anything.
[Roo the Poet] You’re not too small! You’re big and strong like the moon, even when it hides behind the clouds. It’s still there, shining real bright, even if we can’t see it. I’m like that too. I’m always here, like the moon.
[Rowan] But what if I can’t find my way back to the light? What if the pieces of me just don’t fit anymore?
[Roo the Poet] Then we make new pieces! We glue ‘em together, make a brand new picture! It’s okay to be a little broken. Everyone’s a little broken sometimes. But that doesn’t mean you’re not special.
[Rowan] I don’t know if I can be fixed, Roo. I’m too tired.
[Roo the Poet] But you CAN be fixed, Rowan! You just gotta be patient. It takes time, like putting together a puzzle. And sometimes, you have to wait for the pieces to find their place. But that’s okay— you’ll figure it out. I know you will.
[Rowan] And what about you? You always know what to say. How are you so sure that everything will be okay?
[Roo the Poet] Because I trust you, silly! You’re like a little seed that will grow into the biggest flower, even when it’s all dark and hard. I know you can do it, Rowan. You’ll bloom, I promise.
[Rowan] I don’t feel like blooming yet. I just feel stuck, like I’m caught in the mud.
[Roo the Poet] You’re not stuck! You’re just waiting, like a flower needs the rain. The sun will come, I KNOW it will. And then you’ll be all bright and pretty.
[Rowan] But what if I miss the sun? What if it doesn’t come for me?
[Roo the Poet] Then we’ll make our own sun! We can draw it, paint it, make it real big! We don’t have to wait, Rowan. We can shine all by ourselves.
[Rowan] I didn’t think I could do it alone, but you… you make me feel like I can try.
[Roo the Poet] You don’t have to do it alone. I’m right here. I’ll help you, always. I’ll be your sunshine when it’s dark.
[Rowan] Thank you for still fighting for me. Thank you for never giving up on me.
[Roo the Poet] I won’t ever give up on you, Rowan. You’re my best friend. And I’ll always be here. You’re stronger than you know. And you’re never, ever alone.
[Rowan] I think I can start believing that. I think… I think I’ll be okay.
For those who feel these questions, this fire, and this search for self, my poem ‘I Am’ continues the journey—raw, unbound, and unafraid.
I grew up with curiosity tucked into my pockets and verses curled beneath my tongue. Emily Dickinson was a whisper in the corners of my childhood, a friend I never met but whose words became a world I could inhabit. This poem is my conversation with her—not as a student or disciple, but as a daughter of her imagination. I step lightly into her quiet rebellion, tracing the wildness in the spaces between her lines, and celebrate the wonder she taught me to carry everywhere.
Roo the Poet channels Emily Dickinson’s quiet rebellion—where whimsy meets power and poetry becomes sacred magic.
Invocation
Emily, I call you forth from the hush of your pages— to twirl with me among dandelion threads, to sparkle in the dust motes of moonlight, to teach me the magic hidden in whispered words and the spellcraft of curiosity. Come, let us play in the corners of imagination, where every pause is a secret, every breath a tiny universe.
The Daughter of Dickinson Poetry by Roo the Poet ☽
I was born with wonder in my pockets, curiosity curled beneath my tongue— a girl with soil-stained knees and verses stitched in dandelion thread.
Emily, you taught me to whisper like the wind, to rhyme with ghosts, to find galaxies in the hush between heartbeats.
Where others saw silence, you saw sacredness. Where others sought heaven, you built it in the corner of a room with nothing but paper and breath.
I carry your quiet rebellion— your needlepoint of metaphors, your hymns in lowercase, your refusal to explain what the soul already understands.
They say I’m soft— as if softness isn’t a spell. As if whimsy isn’t a weapon for those too clever to be caught.
Let them laugh. Let them call me girl or child or fragile. They don’t see the wildfire tucked behind my daydreams, the spells scribbled in sidewalk chalk, the dragons I’ve tamed with lullabies.
I don’t need a crown of thorns. I wear flower crowns and spiderwebs, and I rule from the quiet places— behind the bookshelf, inside the poem, beneath the bed where dreams go when they’re too loud for daylight.
You showed me how to write the world slant, how to speak with lightning behind my teeth. I am your echo in soft rebellion, your candlelit cathedral of small, sacred things.
So call me daughter, call me myth in the making— but do not mistake my hush for absence. I am here. Wide-eyed. Wand in hand. Heart open like a story yet to be told.
Benediction
May the softest words bloom like wildflowers in your heart. May curiosity be your compass and wonder your crown. May you find galaxies in small corners, and speak with lightning behind your teeth. Go forth with wand in hand, ink on your fingertips, and a heart open to all the stories yet to be told. May you be brave, be small, be loud, be soft— and may the quiet magic of Emily’s whispers always walk beside you.
The Poetic Lineage
The Daughter of Plath | Rowan Evans In The Daughter of Plath, Rowan Evans writes as the heir to a ghost—cradling grief not her own, baptized in bell jars, and building a cathedral from ash. This is a confession, a prayer, and a refusal to let the ache fall silent.
Roo’s poetry lives in the little things—moments that might seem ordinary but carry extraordinary weight. Penguin Pebbling is a celebration of the quiet, unwavering presence of love, the kind that lingers like sunlight on a pebble.
Even the smallest treasures can carry the greatest love—Roo the Poet, Penguin Pebbling.
Penguin Pebbling Poetry by Roo the Poet
I found a pebble by the sea, Smooth and bright, it spoke to me. Not in words, but something more— A feeling I just can’t ignore. It shimmered soft in golden light, Like how your laugh makes dark days bright. A tiny thing, yet strong and true, It made me think of only you.
So in my hands, I held it tight, A little gift that felt just right. Not grand, not rare, not shining gold, But love’s small story, softly told.
A penguin’s heart, a simple thing, Wrapped in pebbles, love takes wing. No diamonds, jewels, or silver bands, Just tiny treasures placed in hands.
So here’s my pebble, just for you, A token of the love I grew. For when I see the world so wide, It’s you who lingers, by my side.
Closing Note
May we all notice the small treasures life places in our hands, the subtle gestures that speak louder than words, and may our hearts remain open to the gentle magic of everyday love.
Go gently into the Hexverse
Whispers of Wonder | Roo the Poet A gentle invocation to the childlike spark within us all.
This is a whisper from the childlike flame within us all—a reminder that magic lingers in the smallest corners, waiting to be seen. Let it remind you to believe, just for a moment, in wonder again.
“Let the stardust in your veins guide you through the quiet magic of the night.” — Roo the Poet
Invocation
Step softly. Let your heart catch the stardust. Inhale the quiet magic and carry it with you, a flicker in the darkness, a spark that refuses to die.
Whispers of Wonder Poetry by Roo the Poet
Hold tight to the stardust in your veins, let moonbeams dance upon your skin. The world still hums with hidden magic— if only you believe again.
“Carry the moonbeams with you, wherever you wander. May the stardust in your veins always light the path ahead. Let wonder find you, even in the quietest corners.” — Roo the Poet
Closing Questions
🌙 Which moonbeam do you follow tonight? ✨ What secret magic has brushed your world recently?
If you’d like to explore more of the Hexverse, you can do so inThe Library of Ashes.
Roo the Poet is the child of my mythos—the barefoot wanderer of dreamscapes, the star-gatherer, the one who hums lullabies to the moon. Through Roo, I allow myself to write softer, lighter, and more whimsical pieces, to let the shadows lift just enough for starlight to spill in.
If my other works speak in the voices of saints, witches, and ghosts, Roo is the child who runs between them—collecting stories in pockets, scattering questions like wildflower seeds. Roo writes not to answer, but to wonder. These 13 Riddles are not puzzles to solve, but spells to unravel you gently, reminding you of the magic you never truly lost.
Roo the Poet—the child of my mythos—wanders the silver paths of wonder, carrying questions, and starlight in equal measure.
Invocation
Come closer, stardust child— bare feet on silver paths, pockets full of found things. We gather where the sky bends low to listen, where moonlight leans in to eavesdrop. Bring your questions, your quiet, your untamed dreams. Tonight, we trade riddles instead of answers, and let wonder do the rest.
13 Riddles for the Starborn Child Poetry by Roo the Poet
Goddess of Magic & Whimsy Witch of Wonder The Soul, The Child
These riddles are soft spells, moonlit questions for the wild-hearted. They aren’t meant to be solved. They’re meant to unravel you gently.
Some seeds only bloom when the world isn’t watching.
I
Where do dreams go when we wake up crying— and who waters the flowers we only plant in sleep?
Some stars shine just for the ones who wait in silence.
II
If a heart breaks in silence, but the stars feel it— is it really alone?
Even fire can make a wish without burning it.
III
Can a girl be made of fire and still blow wishes into dandelions without burning them?
Sometimes joy hides its hurt in the smallest fractures.
IV
What do you call a laugh
that hides a scream
in the spaces between its syllables?
We can forget the faces, but not the touch.
V
If I give you my name, but forget it tomorrow— does that mean we were ever strangers?
Some souls are mended with starlight and sorrow.
VI
How many poems does it take
to stitch a soul back together
with thread made of glitter and grief?
Not all lullabies come from the light.
VII
If your shadow starts to hum lullabies, should you sing along— or run?
Even the gentlest hearts sleep armed.
VIII
Why do all the softest people
sleep with swords under their pillows?
If the moon wrote your name, would you dare to read it?
IX
If the moon carved your name into light, would you recognize it— or look away?
Every secret is a spell if you breathe it softly enough.
X
What’s the difference between a secret and a spell if both are whispered beneath your breath?
Sometimes the reflection feels it first.
XI
If your reflection starts to cry
before you do—
who is comforting whom?
Even monsters remember being held.
XII
Do monsters know
they were children once?
Do we?
Magic never truly disappears—it just hides in the cracks.
XII
And if you find your magic again, buried deep in a box of broken things— will you call it yours, or will you pretend you never lost it?
Benediction
Go now, with your shadow softened by candlelight, with your pockets still jingling with small, strange truths. May you find your magic in the corners of ordinary days, and hold it without asking it to explain itself. The stars have written your name in secret places— when you find them, smile.
If you enjoyed this piece, you can find more of my work in The Library of Ashes. I am sure that you will find more that you will enjoy.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 