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.
This piece is a quiet confession—half shadow, half devotion. In In Her Light, I explore what it means to exist in the spaces someone else illuminates, to be tethered to their glow without asking for it, to guard what they give freely. Sometimes devotion is loud, sometimes it’s invisible; this is the latter, folded into every heartbeat and breath.
— B.D. Nightshade
“Existing in her light, a shadow of devotion and quiet confession.”
In Her Light Poetry by B.D. Nightshade
She’s the light,
I’m the shadow she casts.
I’ve always known my place—
not in the center,
not demanding attention,
just here, steady, waiting.
Every laugh she lets loose
echoes against the walls of me.
Every glance she doesn’t notice
leaves fingerprints on my chest.
I’m the quiet behind her flare,
the pulse she doesn’t feel,
but the one that steadies her steps
when the world threatens to wobble.
She doesn’t need me to shine—
but I need her light.
And if the only way to keep it safe
is to linger unseen,
then unseen I remain.
I memorize the way she breathes,
how her shadow bends against the floor,
the subtle tremble in her hands
when she’s trying not to break.
I’ve built invisible walls around her glow,
stone by stone, heartbeat by heartbeat,
so no one steals what she gives freely,
so no one dims what she can’t contain.
And still, I ache.
I ache to be more than a sentinel,
to be the warmth that touches her skin,
to be seen by her, truly.
But for now, I exist in the quiet,
folded into corners she never notices,
a whisper of devotion
she feels only when danger passes,
when chaos recedes,
when the world bows down
and leaves her whole.
I am her shadow,
but even shadows have edges.
I will guard her light,
even from myself.
Art is a shadowed conversation between creation and chaos. In this piece, I explore the alchemy of patience and fury, the delicate balance between trembling reverence and untamed rebellion. Here, the mundane becomes macabre, and the act of painting transforms into liturgy. Let this poem draw you into the sanctuary where darkness is sacred, and surrender is an art form.
Gothic Bob Ross: Happy Little Blood Splatters – Rowan Evans transforms chaos into art, painting shadows, storms, and raven whispers into a Neo-Gothic masterpiece of devotion and rebellion.
✦ Invocation ✦
Come, children of ink and ember, step softly into the hours where the world frays at the edges. Hear the hum of candle flames, the scrape of claws on cobblestones, the whisper of wind threading through shattered mirrors. Let your senses awaken: the scent of wet asphalt, the metallic tang of rain, the hush of wings brushing shadowed rooftops. Breathe with me the sacred chaos, let your heart beat in rhythm with storm clouds and raven cries, and know that in this hour, creation itself bends to your will.
✦ Gothic Bob Ross: Happy Little Blood Splatters ✦ Poetry by Rowan Evans
I can be patient— but watch me lose patience.
Go ahead. Test me. Push me. Please— twist me. Bend me. Break me.
I’ll snap back, teeth bared, claws ready, painting happy little blood splatters next to storm clouds and crying ravens, the iron scent of rain heavy in the air.
Yeah, I’m timid… but push me to my limits, and I bite.
I mix shadows into my morning tea, steam curling like ghostly fingers, whisper secrets to the moon, and smile as the stars lean in close.
Draw blood, right next to a happy little tree, Gothic Bob Ross with a palette of chaos, every brushstroke a confession, every smear a warning traced in smoke and midnight ink.
I sprinkle ashes on canvas, watch them swirl like fog over abandoned graves. I teach crows to count my sins while rabbits nibble on forgotten bones, their teeth ticking like tiny chimes in the dark.
Lightning forks across my horizon— I smile and carve a happy little slit in the edge of the sky, a touch of crimson for contrast, the taste of ozone sharp on my tongue.
I stitch roses onto the night, petals sharp as knives, scent intoxicating, and hum lullabies for ghosts melting like wax on cold stone.
I build castles of broken teacups, cathedrals of splintered mirrors, and in each reflection I see the grin of someone you really don’t want to know.
Patience is a thread I hold… until it snaps. Then I am a storm with brushes for fingers, laughter like glass shattering over candlelight and cobblestones, every crack a confession, every crack a curse.
So go ahead. Push me. Twist me. Bend me. Break me. I’ll bite back, paint that, laugh in black, and leave you a masterpiece you’ll never forget.
✦ Benediction ✦
Go forth, children of shadow and creation.
Carry the chaos in your veins and the ink on your fingertips.
Let the brush of night guide your hands,
the echo of storm and crow sharpen your senses,
and the taste of rebellion color your heart.
When the world demands stillness,
remember the storm you conjure in silence.
In your shadowed devotion,
you are both artist and altar,
and the masterpiece of your darkness will endure.
Journey into the Hexverse
Nocturnal Crossing | Rowan Evans “Nocturnal Crossing” traces the nightly voyage where two souls separated by oceans meet in dreams. A neo-gothic meditation on longing, devotion, and the sacred intimacy of the subconscious.
Greed — 7 Deadly Sonnets | Rowan Evans ‘Greed’ reveals the hunger that is never sated—the clutching hands, the endless thirst for more, and the hollowness left behind. The third of the 7 Deadly Sonnets.
To Be Near Your Flame | Rowan Evans A haunting meditation on love, longing, and the quiet courage of staying close to the one who sets your heart ablaze. Includes a benediction for connection and devotion.
Like Lambs to the Slaughter | Rowan Evans A visceral, urgent poem confronting the dangers children face and the inaction of those in power. Like Lambs to the Slaughter is a call to awareness, empathy, and collective responsibility.
In every myth, there is a shadow cast by a cathedral’s ghost; in every son who claims that shadow, a prayer whispered in defiance. This is the confessional of a child born of ruin and rebellion— sworn not to brokenness, but to the fierce holiness of becoming. This is…
A sentinel between shadow and dawn — the First Son’s vigil burns quietly, but it burns still.
☽The Vigil of the First Son☾ Prose by Rowan Evans
I was not born from cathedral shadows— I fell from another height, beneath painted canvas and sawdust air, where faith meant catching and being caught.
But the fall came anyway. And in the ruin, he found me— the Broken Saint, robed in mourning. He offered me a name forged from grief, and I took it, though my palms still smelled of flight and chalk.
They call me heir, as if shadow is all I have inherited. But gods know, I am more:
I have bled in these alleys, yes— but I have danced on rooftops, too, laughter spilling into the bruised dawn, a reminder that even vigil can be alive.
He is the shadow. I am the light who learned to love the dark without letting it devour me.
Sometimes guilt creeps in— that I can still love where he has walled himself off, that I can still smile where he only mourns.
But hope is rebellion, too— a heresy against a city built on scars.
Tonight, the moon crowns my brow in borrowed silver, and Blüdhaven breathes below—cracked, imperfect, alive.
I watch from these heights: a sentinel, a son, still learning.
I am not him. And gods, that is my salvation.
☽ Benediction ☾
May the shadow teach you mercy. May your scars be the map to your salvation. And though the night will call, may your first vigil blaze bright enough to be seen from every dawn.
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Every vigil casts its own shadow. If The Vigil of the First Son has found a quiet corner in your marrow, you may also wander these chapels of ruin and devotion:
Each is a prayer, a confession, a testament carved in bruise, bone, and breath. May you find something of yourself between the shadows and the candlelight.
If my words speak to you, and you’d like to help keep this flame burning — or if you’d like a custom poem woven just for you (or someone dear) — you can do so here:
Poetry by Rowan Evans 