This poem is a reflection on devotion, longing, and the quiet strength of love that stretches across distance. Using the imagery of a sunflower—rooted yet reaching, bending yet unbroken—I explore the way our hearts orient themselves toward those who bring light into our lives. It’s a meditation on hope, patience, and the silent pull of someone who becomes our constant, our compass, and our sunlight.
Sunflower Eyes — rooted in hope, reaching for the light, a meditation on love and devotion.
Sunflower Eyes Poetry by Rowan Evans
Like a sunflower,
always searching for golden rays.
My eyes move, always,
in search of your face.
Even in the quiet moments,
when petals fold in sleep,
my gaze drifts across the distance,
finding you in the small sparks
that linger at the edges of the world.
My roots sink deep,
anchored in the soil of memory and hope,
but my head, my heart,
will always sway toward you,
bending and bowing, yet never breaking.
I yearn for the warmth
that only your presence gives,
each glance a sunbeam
piercing through the shadowed field
where I sometimes forget my own strength.
Seasons shift and skies fade,
but I follow the orbit of your light,
spinning in silent devotion,
even when the sun hides behind clouds.
I bloom in the hope of your eyes,
and in the quiet ache of waiting,
I stretch ever upward,
a golden blaze against the sky—
your face, my sunlight,
my constant, my compass,
my forever.
This poem was born from the quiet moments between winter’s chill and candlelight, where shadows linger and hearts search for warmth. Gothic Christmas is my meditation on light and darkness coexisting—how even in cold, silent streets, a flicker of hope can endure. It is for those who find beauty in the night, who embrace the melancholic as much as the joyous, and who believe that love and light can exist even in the most shadowed corners.
A flicker of hope shines in the gothic winter night.
Gothic Christmas Poetry by Rowan Evans
In the heart of winter’s embrace,
Where shadows linger in every space,
A Christmas tale unfolds tonight,
In the realm of darkness, devoid of light.
The moon, a pale and distant gleam,
Casts shadows on the icy stream.
A lone figure roams the streets,
Where silence reigns and coldness meets.
Gothic spires against the sky,
Reach for heaven, where angels fly.
But in these streets, no joyous cheer,
Only whispers of a darker fear.
Beneath the eaves of ancient stone,
The windswept trees their branches moan.
Through cobbled lanes and narrow ways,
A figure in the darkness strays.
No merry carols fill the air,
No laughter heard, no spirit rare.
Only the echo of footsteps light,
Through the haunted, silent night.
But in a corner, dim and cold,
A flicker of candle, ancient and old.
A figure kneels in silent prayer,
Amidst the shadows, deep despair.
For Christmas here is not the same,
In this gothic land of ancient fame.
But in the heart, a flicker, too,
A flame of hope, both old and new.
For in the darkness, cold and stark,
There beats a heart, a tiny spark.
A whisper soft, a promise true,
Of light and love, for me and you.
So in this gothic Christmas night,
Amidst the shadows, cold and white,
Let’s hold onto that flicker bright,
And dream of morning’s gentle light.
Recently, I’ve seen a lot of people online talking about love—what it is, what it should be and what it feels like. A lot of it makes it sound like love should be a fairytale, or something effortless. I wanted to share my own take: what love really is, from my perspective. This is my manifesto.
Love is not effortless—it is choice, presence, and devotion, alive in everyday moments.
Love Is Choice: A Manifesto Manifesto by Rowan Evans
Love is not a fairytale. It is not magic, destiny, or some effortless, perfect emotion that simply exists. Love is work. Love is patience. Love is showing up, again and again, even when it is hard, even when it is mundane, even when it is inconvenient.
Love is choice. It is the decision to walk beside someone, to carry their weight with them—not instead of them, but alongside them. It is the conscious commitment to witness, honor, and respond to who they are, fully, unedited, and without trying to fix what isn’t broken.
Love is active. It is listening when words are hard to find. It is staying present when life shakes everything apart. It is forgiving, learning, compromising, and holding space without judgment.
Love is honest. It does not gloss over pain or disappointment. It does not pretend every moment is blissful or effortless. It sees the darkness, acknowledges it, and chooses to stay. It sees the light, celebrates it, and nurtures it.
Love is courageous. It is daring to be vulnerable, to give your heart fully without demanding repayment. It is resisting the temptation to escape when the weight is heavy, the storm is loud, or the moment is uncomfortable. It is understanding that enduring love is not measured by feeling, but by action.
Love is sacred. It is not about ownership, perfection, or control. It is about respect, devotion, and the sacred trust that comes from seeing someone in their entirety and still choosing them.
Love is worth the ache. The effort is not a burden—it is proof of devotion. The work is not punishment—it is a labor of care. The challenges are not failures—they are the evidence that love is real.
Love is choice. Love is effort. Love is presence. Love is not a fairytale—but it is extraordinary, transformative, and alive in the everyday, ordinary moments that are shared with intention.
When the Mask Slips explores the fragile boundary between performed sanity and inner unraveling. Through vivid imagery, surreal metaphor, and a self-aware voice, Rowan Evans captures the terror and beauty of identity under pressure, where the mask may be all that stands between perception and emptiness.
When the Mask Slips visualized: a lone figure navigating the fragile line between performance and inner self.
When the Mask Slips Poetry by Rowan Evans
I am going to be honest—
I think I’ve lost my mind, I’ve been drifting in this mental fog. Wandering. Lost. Not sure what I was trying to find, not sure what was the cost.
But I’ve been— orbiting annihilation, facing Armageddon in phases— the moon isn’t the only thing that disappears piece by piece.
I keep losing track of my thoughts like loose teeth— wiggling them just to feel something give. I’m just a Mad Hatter, with a Cheshire grin— screaming “Off with their heads!” just to hear the echo— make sure the room and I are still real.
Sometimes— I cosplay sanity, like I have a grasp on reality. Like I know the meaning of stability— mentally. I dress up, pretend that I’m normal— but it feels too boring and formal, too exposed. Too much light, not enough shade, too many eyes on my face.
And underneath it all, I’m terrified there’s nothing there— when the world stops being a stage, when existence stops being a performance. When the mask slips… and it’s just me.
(God, what if that’s worse?)
Author’s Note
This poem sits at the edge between humor and unraveling—between the persona we show the world and the version of ourselves we hope no one ever sees. It isn’t about insanity; it’s about the fear that sanity might be nothing more than costume, choreography, and survival instinct.
It uses absurdity as honesty, because sometimes the surreal is the only language for a fraying mind. The Wonderland imagery isn’t playful fantasy—it’s metaphorical dissociation. The poem is meant to feel unsteady, spiraling, self-aware, and a little unhinged. It asks:
What if the mask isn’t hiding anything?
What if the performance is the person?
This piece reflects the quiet terror of identity erosion—the dread that beneath the jokes, the aesthetics, the manic charm, and the polished poetry… there may be nothing solid to hold onto.
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.
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]
This poem grew from a quiet, unfolding space between two people learning to hold each other with patience and care. It explores the fragility of trust, the reflection of our traumas, and the slow, careful ways we allow someone to stay when we are used to people leaving. It is about intimacy that is not loud or dramatic, but steady, mirrored, and healing.
“The quiet intimacy of two hearts learning to hold each other gently, reflected in soft shadows and warm light.”
Not Used to This Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’m not used to this.
I’m used to doors closing,
to footsteps fading
before I can even speak.
I’m not used to this.
I’m not used to someone staying,
leaning into the spaces
I’ve long left empty.
I bring my scars like lanterns,
flickering, fragile,
and you—
you trace their edges with care,
never flinching,
never asking for more than I can give.
I see your hesitations,
the quiet tremor behind your smile,
the shadowed corners of your past
you tuck into your sleeves.
You are careful with me,
as I am with you.
We move slowly,
like two hands learning each other
in the dark,
tracing lines of trust
over wounds that still ache.
I am wary.
I am heavy with history.
I have loved and been left.
I have built walls
taller than myself.
And still,
you do not falter.
Your patience is steady,
like a river bending around stones,
never harsh, never rushing,
but always persistent.
I notice the way you watch me,
like you’re memorizing my silence,
like you see the cracks
and choose to stay anyway.
I notice the way you hesitate,
how your care mirrors my caution,
how your wounds reflect mine
without judgment or shame.
We are both unpracticed
in this kind of gentleness,
this kind of giving.
And yet—
we are learning together.
I am not used to it.
I am not used to being held
in someone else’s patience,
to being mirrored in someone else’s heart.
And I wonder—
perhaps this is what it is to be seen,
truly seen,
and not abandoned.
We do not need words for it.
We do not need proof.
The small gestures,
the quiet constancy,
the mirrored care—
speak louder than anything we have ever known.
I am not used to this.
But I am beginning to be.
And somehow, in this fragile, tender space,
I am learning that it is enough
for both of us to stay.
“Every heartbeat spoke it before my lips: I choose you, and no one else shall have this part of me.”
Author’s Note
This piece was born from a dream—a quiet, suspended moment that lingered in my chest long after waking. It is a reflection on the delicate intensity of choosing someone wholly, without expectation, without reservation. A confession whispered under the weight of night and the hush of possibility.
“In the hush of night, every step, every glance, carries the weight of choosing someone entirely.”
If I Choose You Vignette by Rowan Evans
We were walking— not speaking, not really— just drifting side by side through the night, the air thick with warmth, heavy with the scent of earth and rain‑kissed leaves. Somewhere distant, somewhere familiar, but not a place that needed naming.
Occasionally, one of us would brush against the other. A touch so light it barely registered, yet electric enough to make the air hum between us. A glance stolen, a heartbeat shared— then the silence reclaimed its space.
The world seemed suspended, breath held in a fragile pause. Streetlights flickered like candle flames, and shadows clung to corners as if listening.
Eventually, she slowed. Then stopped. I followed suit, pressing my back to a rough wall, its coolness grounding me, though it did nothing to steady my racing chest.
She stood a few steps away, hands brushing against her thighs, eyes cast down for a heartbeat before they lifted and caught mine.
Time stuttered. The night folded in on itself. Everything—light, air, sound—paused, as though the universe itself had exhaled and then forgotten how to resume.
She spoke then, haltingly, words fragmented, ephemeral, soft as the hush of moth wings. I caught only the edges of meaning and had to ask her to repeat them, to make sure I had heard correctly what my soul already knew.
Her eyes held me— dark pools glinting with moonlight and shadow— and in that gaze, I felt the weight of unspoken things pressing against my ribs. The pulse of the world slowed, and the air shimmered with quiet danger, like the night was daring me to speak what my heart had been guarding.
I swallowed hard. Once. Twice. And the words emerged, soft but unwavering, a vow pulled from the marrow of me:
“If I choose you… really choose you… that’s it. No one else gets that part of me. Not again. Not ever.”
Each syllable burned with truth, lighting the dark corners of my chest, and I felt the gravity of it as if the universe itself had tilted toward her, bearing witness.
She lingered in the hush, silent, processing, as if the meaning needed to seep through her bones before it could reach her lips. Not closed off, not distant, just slow—patient, like a storm gathering before it breaks in rain.
I waited. The night waited with me. Every leaf, every shadow, every distant hum of a world still moving echoed the ache of what might, perhaps, have been ours.
And then the dream loosened its grip. The edges frayed. I woke, chest tight, heart full, with the weight of absence pressing down, not sorrow, not fear, but the unmistakable ache of something almost—almost—touched, almost held, yet still out of reach.
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.
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
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.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 