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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Rowan Evans

  • The Streets I Walk When I Sleep | A Poem About Dreams, Love, and Emotional Longing

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I didn’t invent the conversation in this poem.

    That’s what makes this piece feel different to me.

    Usually when I write about dreams, I’m translating emotions into imagery after the fact—trying to capture the atmosphere more than the exact details. But this time, I woke up and realized I could still remember almost everything I said.

    Not perfectly. Dreams never survive intact.

    But the emotional core of it stayed with me long after I woke up.

    The strange thing about recurring dreams is how they stop feeling fictional after a while.

    The streets become familiar. The air feels recognizable. The people inside them start feeling emotionally real in a way that’s difficult to explain to someone else without sounding a little unhinged.

    And that’s part of what this piece explores.

    The disconnect between physical reality and emotional reality.

    I know I’ve never walked through Manila in waking life. I know I’ve never stood face to face with her like that. But emotionally?

    Some part of me feels like I already have.

    That’s the part that’s difficult to articulate.

    Especially because the dream wasn’t dramatic. There was no cinematic confession in the rain. No grand climax.

    It was quiet. Warm. Awkward. Honest.

    And maybe that’s why it affected me so much.

    Because the dream version of me said the things the waking version still struggles to say out loud.

    Not in metaphors. Not hidden inside symbolism.

    Just plainly.

    And then, right before I heard the answer—

    I woke up.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure stands on a rain-soaked city street at night beneath warm lights in a dreamlike urban atmosphere.
    Some places live in the heart long before the body ever arrives there.

    The Streets I Walk When I Sleep
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I had a dream last night—

    it’s a line, I’ve written
    a thousand times—

    and I’ll write it
    a thousand times more.

    Because dreams
    don’t feel like things
    that happened
    in my sleep.

    They feel like memories.

    There are times
    I have to remind myself—

    I’ve never been to Tokyo,
    I’ve never walked the streets
    of Manila or Seoul.

    I can’t explain it,
    definitely can’t name it—
    why these connections
    feel so strong.

    Yet, they are the streets
    I walk when I sleep
    and that’s still the same,
    it’s never changed—

    since I was fourteen.

    I’ve just been to
    Manila more lately.

    I had a dream last night…

    It was her and I,
    standing eye to eye—
    and I said everything
    I’ve been too scared to say.

    “I love you,”
    my voice came out
    softer than expected.

    “I always knew,”
    I continued.

    “Since the moment
    something in me changed,
    and you didn’t demand it.
    It just happened.”

    I took her hands
    in mine.

    Sun was gone,
    but you could still feel the heat—
    but the real killer?

    The way the humidity clung,
    making this moment
    sticky sweet.

    “I’ve known
    since the moment I met you
    you were special.”
    I said, my voice near a whisper.

    I felt the way you tensed up.
    You’re not used to this either.

    “It took me six days
    to realize things had changed.
    I wrote that first poem,
    and in my chest, I knew—

    I found home.”

    I felt the tremor in your breath,
    head tilting back
    and we made eye contact.

    Your mouth opened,
    you were about to speak—

    then I woke up.

    Journey in the Hexverse…

    [Memories From a Life Yet to Come]
    Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory. “Memories From a Life Yet to Come” is a reflective free verse poem about longing, displacement, emotional alignment, and the strange comfort of recognizing yourself more clearly in dreams than in waking life

    [Separate Timelines]
    “Separate Timelines” is a surreal and deeply introspective free verse poem about emotional distance, time zones, vulnerability, and the fear of losing a connection that already feels meaningful before the words are ever spoken aloud.

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

  • Separate Timelines | A Poem About Distance, Time Zones, and Unspoken Love

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve always been fascinated by the strange emotional weight of time zones.

    How someone can become such a consistent part of your thoughts that you start measuring your own day against theirs.

    Checking the clock. Wondering if they’re asleep. Wondering what their sky looks like while you’re staring at yours.

    At some point, distance stops feeling geographical and starts feeling temporal.

    That feeling became the foundation for this piece.

    The airport in the dream felt symbolic almost immediately while writing it—a place built entirely around arrivals, departures, waiting, and crossing paths for brief moments before separating again.

    And in the middle of that emptiness, there’s this presence that feels familiar before it’s visible.

    I think that’s what emotional connection can feel like sometimes.

    Not certainty. Not possession. Not even clarity.

    Just recognition.

    This poem also came from the tension between wanting to speak honestly and being afraid of what honesty might change.

    Because vulnerability always carries risk.

    Sometimes the fear isn’t rejection itself— it’s the possibility of losing a connection that already means something to you.

    So the poem lives in that suspended space: between dream and waking, between silence and confession, between leaving and returning.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary person sits alone inside an empty airport terminal at night while distant runway lights glow outside.
    Some connections feel close even across separate timelines.

    Separate Timelines
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I had a dream last night—
    I sat alone in an empty airport.
    Not a soul. Not a sound.
    I was the only one around.

    It was just me
    as far as the eye could see.

    Yet, I heard the hum
    of jet engines still—

    Then there was
    the sound of movement,
    footsteps echoing in the distance.

    Eyes scanning—
    trying to locate the source.

    Slowly—

    I rise.

    Getting to my feet,
    I stumble
    trying to get myself steady.

    The footsteps grow clearer—

    slow, deliberate,
    like someone who already knew
    I’d be here.

    And in the stillness
    of this moment—

    silence folds in on itself,
    waiting for me
    to decide
    whether to run
    or stay.

    The footsteps stop.

    My breath catches,
    not from fear,
    but from the strange familiarity
    of a presence I can’t yet see.

    And my legs feel heavy—

    like they remember something
    my mind doesn’t.

    I can’t see you—
    but I feel your presence.

    It’s like you and I
    live on separate timelines,
    simultaneous
    but different—

    like we can only exist like this.

    Because—
    my day
    is your night,

    and your day
    is mine
    just the same.

    It might seem simple to some,
    might even sound a little dumb—

    to get caught up
    on things like that—

    but I’ve been stuck
    on her time
    since I put widget
    on my phone.

    Listen to me…

    there I go again,
    loose lips
    let truths slip—

    even when they’re
    better left unsaid.

    Not because I didn’t want to say it.

    I did.

    But I don’t know
    if the timing’s right,
    or how you feel—

    but I do know
    you’re worth the risk
    of my heart shattering,
    I just don’t know
    if I’m strong enough
    to handle a connection
    breaking.

    So I keep quiet—

    not because
    I don’t want to speak,
    but because
    I’m scared to.

    So I sink
    back into my seat—
    and I feel your presence fade.

    I don’t know if you left
    or if I’m awake—

    but I promise…

    I promise,
    I’ll be back.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Memories From a Life Yet to Come]
    Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory. “Memories From a Life Yet to Come” is a reflective free verse poem about longing, displacement, emotional alignment, and the strange comfort of recognizing yourself more clearly in dreams than in waking life.

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

  • Memories From a Life Yet to Come | A Poem About Dreams, Longing, and Emotional Alignment

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory.

    Not literal memory—something stranger than that.

    A feeling. A pull. A version of yourself that already exists somewhere ahead of you, waiting to be caught up to.

    I’ve written a lot about displacement, longing, and feeling emotionally out of sync with the place I was born into. But this piece isn’t rooted in resentment. It’s quieter than that.

    This poem came from the feeling of seeing glimpses of alignment before you’ve fully arrived there yet.

    The strange comfort of closing your eyes and feeling more connected to yourself in dreams than you do while awake.

    Not because sleep is escape— but because sometimes dreams reveal the shape of what your heart has been reaching toward all along.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure stands at the edge of the ocean at twilight, looking toward distant city lights across the water as waves roll onto the shore.
    Some places feel familiar long before we ever arrive there.

    Memories From a Life Yet to Come
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I close my eyes—
    hear the crashing waves,
    taste the salt on my lips,
    feel the wind in my hair.

    I feel like I’m floating—
    even lying in bed.

    When I close my eyes—
    I travel in my head.

    It’s like I remember things
    I haven’t lived yet.
    Memories from a life
    yet to come.

    I see the life
    I want to lead,
    while I live the life
    I want to leave.

    Not because I hate it.

    I’m just misaligned.
    A little off-center,
    a little out of sync.

    It’s like I follow the waves,
    because I was never meant
    for this shore.

    Awake is the nightmare,
    asleep is when I open my eyes,
    and I can see the streets—

    where my life
    will finally align.

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

  • From Here, Not Of Here – A Poem About Cultural Disconnection and Belonging

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    There’s a difference between disliking a place… and feeling fundamentally misaligned with it.

    This piece isn’t about hatred. It isn’t about believing one country is morally superior to another.

    It’s about disconnect.

    About living somewhere your entire life while still feeling emotionally, culturally, and spiritually out of phase with it.

    I’ve written about this feeling for years now in different forms: through oceans, through maps, through eastward imagery, through sleep schedules that drift toward different time zones, through the idea of being “from” somewhere but not truly “of” it.

    And the older I get, the more I realize this feeling was never temporary.

    It wasn’t rebellion. It wasn’t escapism.

    It was direction.

    Some people spend their whole lives trying to become rooted where they were planted.

    But some of us are shaped by movement.

    Some of us were always meant to leave.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person standing alone on an American street feeling disconnected from their surroundings
    Some people are born where they are meant to be. Others are meant to journey beyond it.

    From Here, Not Of Here
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I stood still—
    between existing
    and not.

    I stood still—
    on the streets
    I’ve always walked.

    Talking to the same people
    I’ve always talked to.

    I stood still—
    that’s hard for someone like me.

    I was born to flee,
    not to run—
    nor escape,
    but to leave behind
    these rigid states.

    I was destined—
    to map my own fate,
    to tell my own story.

    Since I was born
    every step away from,
    has been a step toward—

    at fourteen,
    I started running.
    Picking up speed—

    even though the roads
    have been long,
    I know the path
    I’m on isn’t wrong.

    But every morning,
    I wake up at nine AM—
    I know my sleep schedule
    shifted again,
    further from where
    I want to be.

    So I mutter to myself:

    Seryoso ka ba, pero…

    I’m tired.

    I’m tired of fighting
    a current never meant for me—

    tired of existing in a place
    that’s supposed to be home,
    but I feel foreign—

    like this is the land
    I’m from—
    but not the land
    I’m of—

    I was meant
    for more,
    somewhere far
    beyond these shores.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Out of Sync]
    A reflective free verse poem about emotional displacement, shifting sleep cycles, and feeling spiritually drawn toward another side of the world.

    [Roles Assigned]
    A quiet exploration of modern life, invisible burdens, and the roles people inherit before they ever choose who they are.

    [Global Takeover]
    What if home isn’t a place—but something you build from the music you love? Global Takeover blends sound, culture, and identity into one borderless space.

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

  • Reading the Sky | A Poem About Depression, Healing, and Emotional Cycles

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    People sometimes talk about depression like it’s constant sadness.

    For me, it’s rarely that simple.

    Sometimes it’s pressure. Sometimes it’s exhaustion. Sometimes it’s numbness so quiet you don’t notice how deep you’ve sunk until something shifts and suddenly you can breathe again.

    That’s where this piece came from.

    Not from a dramatic breakthrough— just a morning where the weight felt lighter.

    And when you’ve carried storms inside yourself for long enough, even small moments of relief can feel almost unreal.

    But one of the hardest things to learn about living with depression is this:

    good days don’t erase bad ones, and bad days don’t erase good ones.

    The storm passing doesn’t mean it’ll never return.

    It means you survived it long enough to recognize clear skies when they arrive.

    That’s what Reading the Sky became about for me.

    Not curing the storm. Not defeating it.

    Just learning its patterns. Learning when the pressure shifts. Learning how to keep breathing through both the thunder and the quiet afterward.

    And maybe most importantly—

    allowing yourself to enjoy the clean air when it finally comes.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary person stands beneath clearing storm clouds as sunlight begins breaking through the sky after rain.
    Some victories are simply learning how to breathe again after the storm passes.

    Reading the Sky
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I woke today
    feeling different—

    like everything
    had changed,
    in an instant.

    Like the storm inside
    had finally gone silent.
    The winds had died,
    but I was alive.

    Smile on my face—
    for the first time,
    didn’t feel out of place.

    I could still see
    lightning on the edges
    of my perception—
    feel the rumble
    of thunder
    in my chest.

    It was softer now.

    This storm had passed,
    but another
    would surely come.

    It’s a cycle—

    and these things
    have a season.

    The storms?

    They come
    and go.

    That’ll never change.

    It’s learning
    to read the sky,
    to feel
    when the pressure shifts.

    Now let me say this plain…

    I’ve got depression.

    It lives in my chest,
    waiting to teach me lessons.

    It’s a storm
    I’ve weathered—

    more than
    any one person should.

    That’s what makes
    days like these—
    feel like the cleanest air
    I’ve ever breathed.

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

  • East Knows My Name – A Poem About Disconnection, Identity, and Longing for Elsewhere

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    There’s a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from constantly trying to explain why you feel disconnected from the place you’re supposed to belong to.

    Not disconnected from life.

    Not disconnected from people.

    Disconnected from alignment.

    Like your internal compass keeps pointing somewhere the world around you doesn’t understand.

    This piece came from that feeling.

    From being awake while everyone else sleeps. From feeling emotionally out of phase with your surroundings. From trying to explain, over and over again, that displacement is sometimes deeper than geography.

    Some people hear that and assume it’s escapism.

    But for me, it’s never been about fantasy.

    It’s about recognition.

    There are places, cultures, people, and ways of existing that resonate with something in me more naturally than the environment I was born into ever has.

    And after writing about that feeling for years, I’m finally starting to understand:

    maybe the repetition wasn’t obsession.

    Maybe it was direction.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person awake before dawn feeling emotionally disconnected while staring eastward
    California in my blood. The east in my heart.

    East Knows My Name
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I sit awake again—
    disconnected
    from the world around me.
    The silence
    surrounding.

    It’s not fear
    I feel.

    It’s something else.

    Something deeper.

    Fear sits at the surface,
    I feel this in my bones.

    I look around
    at this house—

    supposed to be a home.

    I sit awake again—
    up since six AM.
    The disconnect
    sounds like static,
    a distorted hum.

    When I walk outside,
    I don’t feel like I belong.

    Do you know what it’s like—

    to feel one step
    to the left…

    all the time?

    It doesn’t feel right.

    I sit awake again—
    begging my words
    to come.
    I’m sick of only speaking
    in ink—

    I want to speak again.
    I have things to say.

    But my words…

    they don’t align.

    They are shifted,
    just like I am
    most of the time.
    It’s not my fault—
    I’m not the cause.

    It’s the world around me,
    the people surrounding.

    American mouth
    but my mind is not.

    Stuck in the west,
    but long for the east—
    it’s the way
    my heart beats.

    I try to explain it
    in piece after piece,
    poem after poem.

    I’ve written the disconnect,
    time and time again—

    I’ve written about being
    destined to leave
    since fourteen—

    felt disconnected,
    like the Wi-Fi dropped.
    Mind static, dramatic,
    screaming like…

    I won’t repeat myself—
    not for you,
    not for emphasis.

    Because that’s not
    what the rhythm is.

    It’s a compass
    with no magnetic north,
    so the needle drifts
    east of course.

    California in my blood,
    westside in my veins—

    but it’s the east
    that knows my name.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Out of Sync]
    A reflective free verse poem about emotional displacement, shifting sleep cycles, and feeling spiritually drawn toward another side of the world.

    [Two Americans]
    What does it mean to share a country, a language, and still feel completely different? Two Americans explores identity, culture, and the quiet disconnect between people who should feel the same—but don’t.

    [None of It Means a Thing]
    Success, fame, and money don’t mean much without someone to share them with. None of It Means a Thing explores love, purpose, and what truly makes life feel complete.

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

  • Before She Decides – A Poem About Fear of Connection and Emotional Conflict

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some conflicts don’t happen out loud.

    They happen internally–quiet, persistent, and often unresolved.

    This piece explores that split.

    The part of me that wants connection, that wants to be seen, that recognizes something real when it finds it.

    And the part that’s learned, over time, that being seen can come with consequences.

    That vulnerability can lead to loss.

    Neither voice is wrong.

    One is driven by hope.
    The other by memory.

    And most of the time, they don’t reach a clean resolution.

    They just… coexist.

    This poem sits in that space–
    between wanting to stay,
    and expecting to leave.

    — Rowan Evans

    A person sitting alone with two overlapping silhouettes representing internal conflict between connection and fear
    Some battles aren’t fought out loud—
    they happen in the silence between staying and leaving.

    Before She Decides
    Poetry By Rowan Evans

    I sit—
    split—
    like I’ve got two
    personalities inside.

    One that wants to be seen,
    and one that wants to hide.

    Sometimes—
    they talk
    to each other.

    “What are you afraid of?”

    Being perceived.
    You know
    it’s never been easy
    for me.

    “But you retreat too far.”

    I pull back
    as much as I need.
    Sometimes,
    space is safety.

    “That’s a lie you tell
    to isolate yourself
    from everyone else.”

    I’m not isolating—
    I’m protecting myself.

    “From what?
    The very thing
    we want.

    You’re not protecting,
    you’re disappearing.”

    Why can’t it be both?

    “Admit it—
    you’re scared.”

    Scared?
    I’m terrified.

    You know what I feel—
    you know the depths of it.
    You know it’s real.

    “Yes, it’s real.
    It’s new. It’s beautiful.
    It’s nothing to be scared of.”

    Nothing?
    Let me remind you
    of our history—

    the string of people
    that left
    because of our vulnerability.

    “But they’re not her.
    She hasn’t left—”

    Yet.

    What about when
    she gets sick of us?

    Because we’re too loud,
    too weird,
    too honest.

    “Maybe.

    But she’s still here.

    And for once—
    I don’t want to run
    before she decides.”

    For a moment—
    neither of them speaks.

    Just silence—
    stretched thin
    between wanting to stay
    and expecting to leave.

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

  • Not a Crisis, Just Constant – A Poem About Anxiety, Isolation, and Quiet Struggle

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    There’s a version of struggling that doesn’t look like a crisis.

    It doesn’t interrupt your life in obvious ways. It doesn’t demand immediate attention. You can still function. Still respond. Still say you’re okay—and technically, you’re not lying.

    But something isn’t right.

    This piece comes from that space.

    From existing in the in-between—where things aren’t falling apart, but they’re not getting better either. Where anxiety becomes background noise, and depression shifts from something loud and consuming into something quieter… but constant.

    And maybe that’s what makes it harder.

    Because it’s easier to recognize a storm than it is to notice the air slowly changing around you.

    This poem isn’t about overcoming that feeling.

    It’s about naming it.

    And about acknowledging something else, too—

    that even in that space, even with all the noise, there can still be something—someone—that keeps you grounded.

    Not as a fix.

    Not as a solution.

    But as a reason to stay.

    — Rowan Evans

    A person sitting alone in a dim room surrounded by shadowy shapes representing anxiety and quiet mental struggle
    Not everything that hurts is loud—
    some things stay… and stay.

    Not a Crisis, Just Constant
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I sit—
    knees to chest,
    arms wrapped tight.

    I think I’m losing my mind—
    or just lost in it.

    I can feel again.

    But why am I
    still stuck here?

    It’s like I’m on the edge—

    wandering the border between
    social death
    and living.

    I can hear my thoughts talk—
    whispering secrets
    meant to stay hidden,
    embarrassing memories
    I wish I could forget.

    Maybe that’s why
    I can’t move.

    Because I’m stuck
    in the in-between.

    I want connection,
    but I want to be left alone—
    because isolation
    feels like home.

    And that scares me.

    I want you to see me.
    But the thought of being perceived?

    It terrifies me.

    It’s paralyzing.

    I just want to breathe.
    I just want to be—
    without my mind
    attacking me.

    I’m so sick of life
    with anxiety.
    It’s one of the voices
    inside of me.

    Depression was a monster—

    now it’s just
    a low hum.

    Not a crisis…

    but constant.

    I don’t know
    if this is healing—
    or just another version
    of being stuck.

    But through all the noise—
    all the voices—
    there’s still one
    that sounds like you.

    And somehow…

    that’s enough
    to keep me here.

    Journey into the Hexverse!

    [Low Hum]
    Depression isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s a quiet presence—a low hum beneath everything. This poem explores that silence, and the small moments that help break through it.

    [The Wind Knew Your Name]
    A dream of relief turns into something unexpected—the return of thought, feeling, and movement. This poem explores the shift from silence to chaos, and the voice within it that leads the way forward.

    [Storm Systems]
    A powerful poem using weather as a metaphor for mental health, exploring emotional storms, numbness, and the people who keep us grounded.

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

  • Low Hum – A Poem About Quiet Depression and Finding Hope

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Depression isn’t always loud.

    Sometimes it isn’t a breakdown, or a moment where everything collapses.

    Sometimes it’s just… there.

    A constant presence in the background.
    A low hum you can’t turn off.

    You function. You respond. You say you’re fine—
    because technically, you are surviving.

    But inside, there’s a distance. A quiet. A kind of disconnection that’s hard to explain to people who haven’t felt it.

    This piece comes from that space.

    From trying to navigate something that isn’t intense enough to demand attention—but heavy enough to change how everything feels.

    And in the middle of that…
    holding onto whatever brings you back.

    Even if it’s small.

    Even if it’s just a voice,
    a memory,
    or a moment of warmth in the noise.

    Because sometimes, hope doesn’t arrive all at once.

    Sometimes—

    it starts as a flicker.

    — Czech cc

    A dim room with a single candle glowing softly in the darkness symbolizing quiet depression and hope.
    Even the quietest light can break through the loudest silence.

    Low Hum
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve been feeling
    this low hum of depression
    for some time—
    it’s got me stuck
    inside my mind.

    It’s not enough
    to be a crisis,
    I just don’t know
    how to fight it.
    It’s got a grip on me—
    we’ve got history.

    Sometimes—
    I sit like I’m lost in thought,
    but there are no thoughts at all.

    Just silence inside.

    I watch my life
    through hollow eyes.

    There’s too much stimuli—
    the world’s too loud sometimes.
    I’m overwhelmed by
    everything.

    When they ask me,
    I say, “I’m okay.
    Yeah, I’m fine.”

    “Why?
    What’s on your mind?”

    But I’m lying—
    because I’m not okay,
    I’m far from fine.

    I’m trapped inside
    this silence in my mind.

    I want connection,
    but my mind pulls me away.
    I open my mouth,
    but don’t know what to say—

    or how to break the cycle.

    How do I step outside the loop?

    I hold onto whatever grounds me,
    whatever helps
    fight the tide inside my mind,
    and keeps me clinging to the shore.

    It starts small—
    a single image:
    A candle with flickering flame.

    But it quickly grows—

    her voice saying my name,
    echoed through the dark.

    Her laugh—
    shatters the ice
    around my heart.

    I’m still stuck—

    but now—

    I have hope.

    And maybe…
    that’s enough to start moving.

    Journey into the Hexverse!

    Even knowing where you’re going doesn’t mean you’re not still fighting to get there. — [121° East]

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

  • Eternal Current: A Poem About Timeless Love by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem was written on February 17th, 2025. It explores the quiet, unspoken moments that carry immense depth – the small gestures, the glances, the eternal connection that flows between two hearts. Inspired by fleeting yet timeless intimacy, it is meant to capture love as both gentle and vast, like a river that carries everything along its current.

    — Rowan Evans

    Two figures beside a sunlit river, connected by an ethereal, flowing current symbolizing love.
    Eternal Current – love that flows timelessly, like water through the heart.

    Eternal Current
    Poetry by Rowan Evans
    (written February 17th, 2025)

    A gasp, a sigh—
    a whisper low,
    your eyes shine,
    with sun and moon’s glow.
    A touch, a flame,
    a silent truth,
    and the world fades
    when I see you.

    Promises carved
    in midnight skies,
    where the heart beats once,
    but never dies.
    This love, like a river—
    endless, wide,
    where two souls drift,
    forever entwined.

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