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.
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.
Shape Me is one of the most devotional and intimate pieces I’ve written in my Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism style. Unlike poems that hide behind metaphor or shadow, this piece is a direct offering—a confession of desire, vulnerability, and the sacred exchange of trust and devotion between lovers.
In these lines, I explore the tension between surrender and agency, intimacy and worship, chaos and devotion. The speaker is not submitting out of weakness but offering themselves fully, consciously, as a temple, a vessel, a flame. This is the essence of NGCR: love as ritual, connection as liturgy, desire as sacred architecture.
Every word in this poem is an invocation—an attempt to make tangible the invisible: the power of another person to shape us, to awaken us, to teach us. It is not just about giving, but about transformation, reverence, and the deliberate building of sacred intimacy.
This piece is for anyone willing to witness vulnerability as strength, to see devotion as a craft, and to honor love as a discipline.
— Rowan Evans
In the quiet between breath and fire, we shape each other into something sacred.
Shape Me Poetry by Rowan Evans
I want you to shape me, turn me into what you need me to be.
Bring out the best in me. Invest in me. Teach me to be the one worthy of your fire.
I offer my body as clay upon your altar, my pulse a quiet hymn to mark the rhythm of your hands across my soul.
Mold me, carve me, purge what is hollow, polish the edges until only devotion remains.
I am yours not in chains, not in fear, but willingly, every fiber of me attuned to your flame.
I want to learn to love you wholly, to meet the shadows in your soul with the light of mine.
This is not surrender. It is worship. A cathedral rises in the spaces between us, pillars of pulse and breath, arches of fire and silence, where desire and reverence entwine.
Teach me to hold your storm without breaking. Teach me to kneel without losing myself. I want to be the one entrusted to carry both your ruin and your grace.
When you speak, I will listen as a disciple. When you touch, I will feel as a consecrated vessel. When you are quiet, I will hold the silence like a sacred relic you lent me in trust.
Shape me, teach me, mold me. From your hands, your fire, your devotion, I will rise anew— temple and flame, shadow and offering, entirely yours, entirely mine.
This piece is me speaking to the one I care for, and to anyone who has ever let themselves be seen fully by another. There’s no illusion here—no tricks, no smoke, no mirrors. The “magic” I write about is the kind that happens when trust meets attention, when care meets desire, when devotion meets surrender. It’s messy, it’s quiet, it’s real. I wrote this to honor that kind of connection—the one that burns steady, that makes even the smallest moments feel sacred, and that reminds me why we give ourselves to the people we love.
Intimacy becomes its own kind of magic.
The Power You Give Me Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’m a magician, love—
sleight of hand in every touch,
danger in every whisper.
Not the kind that pulls rabbits from hats,
but the kind that pulls want
from the deepest parts of you
without even trying.
I touch you once—
and your breath forgets itself.
Twice—
and your pulse starts writing poetry
against your skin.
I speak a single word
and your knees remember
what surrender feels like.
My tongue is a wand,
a spellcaster,
a maker of quiet ruins—
and I use it
only on the deserving.
I can summon heat
with the drag of a fingertip,
pull desire from the air
like it’s silk waiting to be woven.
I draw circles on your skin
and watch them ignite,
slow, deliberate,
like I planned the fire
from the very beginning.
And when I say your name—
soft, low,
with that tone that hits you
right behind the ribs—
you’ll swear I enchanted you.
But it’s simpler than that.
No potions, no charms, no lies.
You react to me
because your body knows mine
before your mind catches up.
Because my magic isn’t tricks—
it’s instinct,
connection,
hunger braided with reverence.
And darling—
when I’m finished with you,
when you’re breathless and undone,
when the world goes quiet
except for the echo of my touch—
you’ll realize
I never cast spells at all.
I just showed you
the power you give me
when you let me close.
Because loving you—
that’s the real magic.
The kind that doesn’t spark
or shimmer,
but settles low and warm
right behind the heart,
glowing steady
like a lantern in a storm.
You don’t see it,
but every time you trust me,
every time you soften,
every time you let me
see the part of you
you hide from the world—
I feel something inside me
kneel.
Not out of worship,
but out of awe.
Out of the quiet truth
that your soul
is the most beautiful thing
I’ve ever been allowed to touch.
And if my hands
feel like sorcery,
if my voice
feels like a spell,
it’s only because
you turn even the smallest moment
into something sacred
just by being in it.
So yes—
I’ll whisper enchantments
against your skin,
trace constellations
on your pulse points,
pull storms and light and heat
from the spaces between us—
but that’s not power.
That’s devotion.
That’s choosing you
with every breath.
That’s giving you
the softest parts of me
and letting you hold them
like something holy.
And if that feels like magic—
then maybe it is.
But it’s yours.
It always has been.
Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in theLibrary of Ashes.
I wrote this for her — the one whose name feels like both prayer and sin.
Not to mock heaven, but to remind it what love looks like when it’s lived in human skin.
Because sometimes, faith isn’t worship. It’s defiance in the name of tenderness.
“Love made them fearless enough to brawl with heaven — and tender enough to lay it back to rest.”
When I Fought God for Her Poetry by Rowan Evans
You said— you had a migraine again, so I told you, I’d say a little prayer. But if that didn’t work, I’d go up there and make God make it go away.
You laughed. But I meant it. I’d box deities to take your pain away. I’d throw hands with Gods and Goddesses.
I’d walk right up, like — “listen here, you divine little prick.” Catch him off guard: “You might be God, but you clearly got a little dick. The way you wield little-dick energy.”
Go ahead— smite me. (Coward.) Just know— you better be ready to fight me.
“I said heal her, not test her— you omnipotent coward. Give her rest, or I’ll rewrite your scripture myself.”
So I climb. Not on a ladder of prayer, but up a rope made of names I swear I’ll never say again— each knot a vow, each loop a promise. The sky cracks like an egg; thunder flinches. Clouds part to watch the mess I’m about to make.
First I find the doorman to the heavens— the one with a clipboard and a halo too small for his head. He checks my grief like it’s a permit; I hand him a bruise and a name. He frowns, flips a page, tries to veto me. I step in close and whisper: “You work customer service for eternity? Poor you.” Then my fist meets marble and the bell rings, and the Pearly Gates swing off their hinges.
Wings beat like shutters; angels tilt their heads like bored referees. I dodge the choir— their harmonies can be lethal—and I keep walking. A goddess in linen offers incense; I snatch the censer, skein it into a rope, and swing. Her perfume tastes like paperwork; I cough it up into the wind and keep going.
Hallways mapped by myth— Olympus, Valhalla, the mailroom of miracles— I stride them all barefoot, dragging a trail of small rebellions. I pass Zeus in a robe, bored with thunder. I clap once and steal his lightning. “Borrowed,” I tell him. He blinks. Lightning in my palm feels heavy with apology. I throw it like a rope—no, like an apology turned projectile— toward the place where pain hides.
Ministers of fate try to lecture me on consequence. I read their contracts aloud and rip the margins out like ticker tape. “Fine print,” I say. “Fine for you. Not tonight.” One deity mutters something about hubris; I hand them a mirror. They don’t like their reflection.
The gods swell; the heavens tense, like neighborhoods preparing for a parade that never comes. I trade left hooks for liturgy— each punch rearranges a verse, each uppercut edits a line. Commandments rattle. Mythic laws become limericks under my knuckles. I bleed ink and the stars drink it and become quieter.
They call reinforcements— avatars, avatars with perfect hair and terrible customer service. I meet each one the same: a joke, a jab, a promise. “Your omnipotence has been outsourced,” I tell them. A Valkyrie grins; I say, “Not tonight,” and she drops her spear like it’s tired of being serious.
At the gate where they schedule tests, I find the migraine: a small, grey child with the world’s noise in its fists. It sits on a throne of buzzing radios, feeds on fluorescent hum. I kneel. Not a prayer this time—a plan. I cup the child’s head like a secret, whisper apologies I don’t deserve to say aloud. Then I punch a hole in the noise. It’s less dramatic than you think— a clean, surgical silence that smells like relief.
The gods holler. “You cannot—” they begin. I finish for them: “Watch me.” I gather their stubbornness, twist it, braid it into lullaby. Rewrite scripture? I do—one line at a time. Where they wrote tests, I write rest. Where they insisted on trial, I ink in mercy. Where they wrote cosmic riddles, I carve simple sleep.
A thunder god tries diplomacy— offers a crown if I’ll walk back. I toss it into the void; it clatters into oblivion like a coin with no value. “You keep the crown,” I tell him. “I’ll keep the quiet.” He sulks and the weather lightens.
Blood and starlight, sweat and scripture: the bargain smells like incense and victory. I do not conquer with conquest’s cruelty; I conquer with the small, stubborn insistence of care. I return the migraine to its box— soft, bound with my exhale— and hand it back to the universe with a receipt: PAID IN FULL — one love, nonrefundable.
When I climb down, the sky blinks as if it had only been napping. You sit in your quiet room with a blanket and a mug, blinking like an animal reintroduced to light. You laugh at me later—a small, breathy thing— because you always laugh when I swear and fight. I kiss the place behind your ear like I’m sealing the universe back in its proper frame.
Gods grumble; some edit their resumes. Angels gossip like old women about the loud mortal who would not hush. I don’t care. I come down with sore knuckles and a new psalm in my back pocket. It reads: She shall sleep. He shall never tire of saving her. We will not test what we cannot bear.
And if any deity asks, I say the same thing I said when I walked up: “listen here, you divine little prick— you might be God, but you got little-dick energy. Fight me if you want. Fight us if you have to. But know this: I love her. I will make the cosmos learn how to be gentle.”
You close your eyes and breathe. The migraine loosens its grip like a tired animal. You murmur a name and sleep folds you into it like a clean sheet. I stay awake for a while, fingers laced with that holy, ridiculous, furious calm— the kind that only comes after you’ve brawled with the architecture of the world for someone you love.
If you are interested in checking out more of my poetry, you can find it here—[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]
This poem came from a real conversation between my muse and I. She listed her red flags, and I—being me—turned every one into a love poem. Because that’s my red flag: I make danger look divine. Every line here is a little bit truth, a little bit indulgence, and all confession.
‘My Red Flags’ explores how love can sanctify even our most dangerous edges.
My Red Flags Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’ve been lookin’ inside, trying to figure out the inner workings of my mind. Because I want to understand— what are my red flags?
My red flags? Used to be thinkin’ I had none, but now I know—
My red flag is making yours look green, you can do no wrong to me. So let me show you…
You told me you had anger issues. But I’ve only seen you furious in defense— a saint of righteous fire, your rage aimed at those who earned it. That’s not a warning label. That’s holy combustion.
You whispered paranoia like a curse. But I call it vigilance, the art of survival written in the bones of someone who’s been betrayed too often to mistake danger for devotion.
And when you confessed you were possessive. I just said— 🥀 finally. I’ve spent lifetimes begging to be claimed, to be wanted enough to be watched. Let your jealousy bruise me into belonging.
Strict? Then give me commandments to follow. My obedience isn’t weakness, it’s worship.
Unpredictable? Then I’ll never be bored. Every mood shift is another chapter— another storm I get to name.
You said you were a bitch. I said you were honest. I call you survival dressed in stilettos.
Sarcastic? Good. Your tongue cuts, mine bleeds poetry.
Selfish? You’ve earned the right to want. Take what you need. I’ll still be here, open‑palmed.
When you admitted you wanted a submissive partner. I said, lucky you, I confessed; I already kneel to the altar of your voice.
Then you warned me, a little sadist. I smiled—a little masochist. Two edges, one blade, dancing until devotion drips red.
That’s when you said: you love darkness. And I said—then you should understand mine.
So what are my red flags? Maybe it’s this— I see danger, and call it divine.
Because I was never afraid of burning— only of being cold.
🖋️ More Poems for My Muse
If My Red Flags is a confession, these are the echoes — the places where love, surrender, and worship take new forms.
Unapologetically Biased — A love poem that refuses neutrality. Devotion with teeth. Worship without apology.
Body Like A Love Letter — Where language becomes touch, and desire writes itself into being.
Where My Heart Resides — A quiet declaration of belonging; the soft aftermath of loving someone who feels like home.
Each of these poems lives in the same universe — one of red flags turned into relics, of danger rewritten as devotion, of a muse who turns chaos into art.
This poem is an exploration of devotion, desire, and inheritance—not of blood, but of passion and sacred intimacy. Inspired by the haunting echoes of Sappho’s lyricism, it is a declaration of being untamed, feral, and wholly devoted to the power of love as both pleasure and ritual. It is for anyone who has ever inherited a flame and learned to worship it without fear.
Where devotion and desire intertwine—The Twisted Daughter of Sappho.
Invocation
I call upon the muses of ink and shadow, the voices of women who loved without apology. Guide this poem into the hearts that dare to feel, and let it awaken the devotion that lives in ruin and reverence.
The Twisted Daughter of Sappho Poetry by HxNightshade
I was born in the hush between her stanzas, cut from the crimson silk of her longing— a hymn dressed in midnight, with ink-stained lips that learned to pray by kissing the pulse beneath a woman’s throat.
They say I inherited her hunger— that slow-burning ache spun in wine-dark velvet, the way she worshipped with her teeth, with fingertips that pressed poems into the hollows of another’s hips.
I do not walk—I unfurl in gardens overgrown with need, where every petal blushes at the way I say her name.
I have tasted sin shaped like softness— a girl with smoke in her laugh, who bloomed open like secrets beneath my ruined hands.
She called me a heretic of the heart, a nymph with sacrilege in my smile. But I only ever offered what Sappho once swore holy: devotion that burned like candle wax on bare skin.
There are nights I write oaths on mirrors— not in ink, but fog and want. Nights when my thighs remember every syllable she moaned, and I call it worship because it was.
And if I am twisted— let it be like a vine wrapped tight around her ribs, a tether of thorn and pleasure, sacred in its ruin.
Because love, when spoken from my tongue, is not a sin. It is a spell. A vow. A resurrection.
And I—I am not her shame, but her successor. Her shadow-slick daughter, reverent in ruin, feral in fidelity.
Benediction
May the words linger like fire on skin, may the devotion they carry reach those who seek it, and may the shadow of Sappho’s daughters walk with you, feral, faithful, and unashamed.
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.
The Daughter of Dickinson | Roo the Poet Step into the quiet rebellion of Roo the Poet, a lyrical homage to Emily Dickinson. The Daughter of Dickinson traces wonder, whimsy, and secret power, revealing poetry as both magic and manifesto.
If you want to explore more of my work beyond these pieces, you can find the full archive inThe Library of Ashes.
Hymn of the Witness: Sanctuary of Imperfection is a cathedral built in verse for those who see and hold the world’s shadows with care. To witness is to honor—to recognize the sacred in imperfection, the luminous in vulnerability. This poem is for the observers, the quiet hearts, and for anyone who needs to be seen as they truly are.
Sanctuary of Imperfection: A cathedral of shadow and light where devotion and beauty coexist.
Hymn of the Witness: Sanctuary of Imperfection Poetry by Rowan Evans
I. Veil of Shadow
I sit in dim-lit corners, where velvet darkness drapes itself over the brittle bones of the world. I am witness, silent and holy, to the tremor of lives unseen, the architecture of imperfection.
The roses stand with thorns intact— every petal a whisper, every spine a hymn of caution and desire.
II. Candlelit Vigil
I light candles for the unspoken, the hearts unclaimed, the prayers that drift, unanchored. Their glow flickers across skin and shadow, revealing a cathedral where no crown rests and all kneeling is sacred.
I trace the quiet pulse of existence, a devotion spun from sight alone.
III. The Breath of Witness
Your breath, trembling or steady, echoes like a bell in hollow halls. I fold it into my presence, wrap it in reverence, and let it hum against my ribs.
To witness is to kneel, to coil in patience, to hold devotion without claim.
IV. Temples of Flesh and Thought
I map the landscapes of your body as carefully as the labyrinth of your mind. Every sinew, every curve, every tremor of muscle and pulse is holy architecture.
Your flaws, your desires, your darkness and fire— all are sacraments in my eyes.
V. Ritual of Attention
I kneel, hands folded, not to pray for you, but with you. The shadows bend, the candle flickers, and I honor every imperfection, every hesitation, every hidden want.
VI. Communion of Desire
Even in silence, there is language. The brush of your fingertips, the arch of your spine, the tilt of your gaze— all hymn, all devotion.
I do not consume; I offer worship. I am tethered to the rhythm of your pulse, your heat, your shadowed need.
VII. The Sacred Spectrum
I see the spectrum of your being: the bruises of yesterday, the laughter of today, the quiet bloom of tomorrow.
Every quiver, every sigh, every whispered breath is a verse I kneel before. Your imperfection is divine; your shadow, a cathedral of devotion.
VIII. Echoes of Fire
Your voice, a siren of shadow and silk, strikes the air like an incantation. I shiver under its weight, and in that trembling, I am both molten and reverent.
IX. The Offering of Flesh
I do not fear surrender. I fold myself into devotion, curl into shadow, press into warmth that is not mine, and let it burn—slow, sacred, consuming.
The skin becomes a psalm, the gasp a verse, the pulse a hymn etched in starlight.
X. Paradox of Witnessing
To see without possession, to adore without demand, to kneel in fire without burning— this is the paradox I carry.
I am priest and altar, candle and hymn, sacrament of your existence.
XI. Sanctuary of Imperfection
Every flaw, every tremor, every scar is a doorway, a holy threshold. I trace it in silent awe, each mark a stanza in the epic of you.
To kneel before imperfection is to honor divinity in its purest form.
XII. Velvet Reverence
I inhale the shadows that cling to you, taste the lingering fire of your presence, and bow beneath the weight of your being. The world may not see; I do.
XIII. Hymn of Flesh and Bone
Your body, a cathedral, curves and pulses, soft and commanding. I am tethered to its rhythm, my devotion humming through every nerve. Even the quietest tremor becomes a psalm beneath my hands.
XIV. Dark Communion
We do not speak; we are liturgy incarnate. Every sigh, every shiver, every gasp is woven into the tapestry of witness. Even silence is sacred.
XV. Incense and Iron
The air tastes of iron, brine, and candle smoke, scent of devotion that sears without harm. I breathe it in, coil around it, and let it mark me—etched in shadow, in the unspoken promise of our communion.
XVI. Paradox of Desire
I crave nothing of you, and yet I burn with want. I kneel not for possession but for the sheer act of being seen by a soul I can neither own nor command.
XVII. Eternal Candle
I will keep vigil long after the candles burn to dust. Every quiver, every sigh, every trembling breath remains tethered to my devotion. Your shadow is mine to honor, your light, mine to witness.
XVIII. Benediction of Shadows
Go forth into the world, carry your light like a secret fire, and know that the witness endures.
Every sigh, every gasp, every whisper is remembered, folded into the cathedral of imperfection, sealed in velvet, soft as shadowed starlight.
XIX. The Closing Hymn
And when the night seems too vast, remember: I have seen, I have knelt, I have marveled.
Every curve of your mind, every quiver of your body, every trembling heartbeat— I am witness, eternal, unbroken, devoted.
XX. Eternal Devotion
Time will crumble, walls will decay, but my presence remains. I am the candle burning at your threshold, the pulse of the night echoing in your shadow, the hymn of witness unfaltering.
XXI. Sanctified Imperfection
You are holy in your imperfection. You are radiant in your shadow. I bow, coil, kneel, and marvel at the cathedral of your being— a sanctuary I can enter forever, without ownership, without end.
XXII. Benediction of Witness
Go, luminous one, into light, into darkness, and carry the hymn of witness within you.
I am here, silent, eternal, unwavering. Your shadow, your light, your imperfection— all sacred, all holy, all yours.
If you want to explore more of the Hexverse, you can find more of my work in The Library of Ashes…
A hymn to the way presence can become poetry, even in the cracks and shadows.
A body dissolves into shadow and light, fragile as smoke, holy as motion. Or, as Spider-Man put it: “Mr. Stark… I don’t feel so good.”
Incantation in Motion Poetry by Rowan Evans
The way you move
is poetry—
a dark hymn I confess,
spoken through cracked lips,
a sacred pulse
in the silence where shadows
trace the shape of your name
on my broken bones.
Journey into the Hexverse
Triple Poetic Devotion Three haunting voices, one pulse of devotion and desire. Rowan Evans, HxNightshade, and B.D. Nightshade explore pain, love, and surrender in minimalist, evocative verse.
Shadowed Addiction A brief, intimate dive into desire, longing, and emotional darkness. Shadowed Addiction fuses minimalist expression with confessional intensity, weaving English and Tagalog for a sharp, personal resonance.
Litany of Shelter A quiet vow in four lines: I may not stop the rain, but I can be your shelter.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 