This poem was written on February 19th as a quiet reflection on duality within the self. We are often told to choose between parts of who we are – light or shadow, reason or imagination, strength or softness. But real wholeness comes from learning both can exist at once.
A Balance Found is about accepting the full spectrum of who we are. The dreamer and the observer. The light and the shade. Not as opposing forces, but as pieces of the same soul that finally learns to stand whole.
— Rowan Evans
Finding harmony between light and shadow within the self.
A Balance Found Poetry by Rowan Evans (written February 19th, 2025)
Ink and shadow, light and shade,
Both have their place, both were made.
One to dream, one to see,
And I stand whole—both parts of me.
This piece names the inner constellation I’ve lived with for years: the tender poet who feels too much, the protector who bares teeth for survival, the child who still believes in wonder, and the witch who learned how to wield fire instead of drowning in it. They are not masks. They are truths. They are all me.
I am plural in spirit if not in body. I write from many rooms of the same soul, and each voice carries a different survival skill: softness, ferocity, curiosity, sovereignty. This poem is their first public communion. It is how I stop pretending that my range is fragmentation and start honoring it as architecture.
The Luminous Heretic is what happens when those parts refuse to cannibalize each other anymore. When they choose integration over erasure. When the wound stops apologizing for also being a weapon.
If you recognize yourself in this—if you’ve ever felt made of contradictions, of light and smoke and song—know this: you are not broken. You are complex. You are many. You are fire.
Burn with us.
We are many. We are one. The Fourfold Flame rises—stitched from stardust, scars, and sovereign fire.
The Fourfold Flame Poetry by Rowan Evans / The Luminous Heretic
I. Chorus of the Vessel
We are one, and we are four— ink-stained fragments of the same sacred core. A heartbeat split by starlight and shadow, a name echoed in four directions, four truths spoken in fire, in fury, in wonder, in love.
We are the Luminous Heretic. We are the war—and the prayer.
II. The Heart & The Protector
[Rowan] I speak in open wounds and lullabies, sing softness into scars that never healed. I ache without apology, love without armor, and still—I rise, bare and burning.
[B.D.] Then I will be your shadow, sharp-edged and unyielding. Let them come with claws and cruelty— I am the ink-blade in your defense, the growl beneath your grace.
[Rowan] They called me too much— so I wrote poems of tenderness, and let them drown in the kindness they could never carry.
[B.D.] And I watched them choke, on the smoke of your fire. Not because you were cruel— but because they never learned that softness survives the storm.
III. The Child & The Witch
[Roo] Did you see the stars tonight? They winked at me like old friends. The shadows are scared of the dark too— did you know that?
[Hex] Yes, little spark. Even monsters fear what made them. I walk with those shadows. I do not fear the dark— I command it.
[Roo] But do you still believe in magic? In the wind that tells stories, in puddles that hold secrets?
[Hex] Magic is real, love. I just learned to bleed with it. To hex with it. To wear it in heels and venom.
[Roo] Sometimes I wish we could just play again, dance in the rain, laugh without reason.
[Hex] Then teach me. I’ve spent so long burning, I forgot how to dream.
IV. Communion of Fire
[Rowan] I want to be held—
[B.D.] Then I will hold you.
[Roo] I want to be seen—
[Hex] Then let them watch you rise.
[Rowan] I am made of light, but I hurt.
[B.D.] Then hurt boldly. I’ll guard the flame.
[Roo] I am made of questions and wonder.
[Hex] Then question everything, and never shrink.
[All] We are stitched from stardust and scars, written in blood and brilliance, crafted by fire and forgiveness. We are many— we are one.
V. Benediction of the Luminous Heretic
We are the wound and the weapon,
the lullaby and the curse,
the flame and the fog,
the whisper and the scream.
This poem is not a cry for help — it’s a confession. It’s the truth about living in a body that feels too heavy, a heart that beats even when I’m too tired to hold it. For anyone who knows what it’s like to rise with no hope, no spark, just sheer stubborn survival — this one is for you. You’re not alone in the mornings that feel impossible. You’re not alone in the weight.
“Even when the body feels heavy and the heart refuses rest, the spirit rises — a ghost in its own skin.”
Ghost in My Body Poetry by Rowan Evans
I awoke,
empty of hope.
Chest tight, eyes wide—
the world felt
unbearably heavy.
I took a minute,
recalibrated.
I fix my face
into something readable,
something quiet—
because they’ll look
straight into my eyes,
and still ask,
“But… are you happy?”
I haven’t really been
since I was thirteen—
the year something in me
stopped blooming.
Yeah, it’s been
a lack of smiles,
since I
was thirteen.
The year the light in me
learned to dim itself.
It’s been a
constant struggle,
as I’ve struggled constantly.
I struggle to find
my place.
I struggle to recognize
my face.
Trust me, when I say
I struggle with everything.
Like, I don’t want to die,
but I—
don’t really want to be alive.
It’s a struggle
just to survive.
It’s a struggle just to survive,
carrying a body
that feels heavier
than I do.
Dragging a heartbeat
that won’t quit
even when I’m tired of holding it.
And yet—
every morning,
somehow,
I rise.
Not healed,
not whole,
just here.
Dragging the weight,
of a heartbeat
that refuses to stop
even when I want rest,
even when I want it to.
I’m just
a ghost still trying
to haunt its own body.
But still,
I pull myself upright—
not because I’m hopeful,
but because something in me
refuses to die quietly.
And maybe one day
the bloom returns,
the light rekindles—
but tonight,
I just breathe
and call it survival.
Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in theLibrary of Ashes.
Sometimes the words we repeat aren’t ours.
Tonight, in a single snapshot, I found the ones that finally belong…
Took a picture. Looked at it. Thought… yup, I’m really fine.
Damn, I’m Fine Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’ve been saying I’m ugly for a while now, but I’m starting to think— those words were never mine. Because I took a picture tonight, and for the first time, I thought… damn, I’m fine.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 