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.
The Rot & The Poet is a confessional dialogue between two voices that have lived within me for over two decades — the one that wants to create, and the one that whispers destruction. It’s the internal war of survival that every artist who’s faced depression knows too well.
This poem is not about defeat; it’s about endurance. It’s about knowing that the shadow doesn’t win just because it speaks louder — and that light, even when trembling, still burns.
“Even shadows need light to exist.” — The Rot & The Poet
The Rot & The Poet Poetry by Rowan Evans
[The Rot] Hello Rowan, it’s me again… The voice that lingers inside your head, The one that whispers, making you wish you were dead. You thought I was gone, but I’m still here, Making you wish you’d just disappear.
[The Poet] Shut up. You’re nothing. A voice that matters not, Just internal rot, Creeping only when I have something to say. You’re just a monster.
[The Rot] Oh, I’m not the monster… That’s you, walking rot on the world. You think you matter? You don’t even know if you’re a boy or a girl. You’re so pathetic.
[The Poet] Pathetic? More like prophetic. I see what the future brings, And it brings clarity. I write as charity, I write to give back to the world. You try to dim that.
[The Rot] You write to give back to the world? You write for a world that wishes you forgotten. Or did you forget? Nobody wants you here. You’ve got a voice—nobody wants to hear.
[The Poet] That’s not true. People are listening… From Germany to Spain, Ireland, Sweden, and Singapore too. Kenya to the Philippines, India, Hungary, and France… I’ve got people that pay attention; It’s my words they consume.
[The Rot] You can think what you want, But you’re nothing without me. Do you think you’d actually be happy? When you thought I was gone, You were still in the dark, wallowing, Still trying to figure out what you wanted.
[The Poet] I knew exactly what I wanted. I was starting to make moves. I was working toward my goals, But then you showed your ugly head again, Tried to twist my thoughts, Tried to make me think I wished to be dead again.
[The Rot] Ha ha… Don’t make me laugh. You’re nothing, remember? You think you’ve got friends, You think you’ve got fans? Do you really think anyone truly understands?
[The Poet] I don’t think I have fans, But I know I have friends. I have people that care, And they tell me all the time.
[The Rot] They’re just lying. Nobody truly cares. If they did, they’d be here.
[The Poet] Fuck you. I won’t let you in again. I won’t let you win again. You won’t push me to the edge, You won’t make me want to jump. I won’t question my worth anymore— Not for you, not for the voice inside my head, Not for anyone that makes me wish I were dead.
[The Rot] Oh, you’re too cute. Rowan, just think for a minute. Think about what you’re saying. You think you can cut me off? You think you’re in control? How long have I been with you? Since you were thirteen… Twenty-two years now?
[The Poet] Twenty-two years, yes. I’ll confess, you’ve had a hold on me. You’ve almost broken me. But I’ve always fought back. I’ve always survived. Look at me—thirty-five, still alive.
[The Rot] Still alive? Maybe. But are you truly surviving?
[The Poet] I’m still breathing, and that’s enough.
[The Rot] Breathing? You’re bleeding. Is that the life you want to live?
[The Poet] Shut up! Just shut up!
[The Rot] Oh, look at you… You’re shaking. Am I getting under your skin? I feel it… I’m so close to breaking you, Making you finally see… You’re nothing without me. You need the pain, you need the hate. You need something you can take and shape.
[The Poet] If you were as strong as you say you are, You wouldn’t disappear in the morning. You’d still be here, keeping me mourning. But the sun will rise, and you’ll fade from my eyes. You’ll be gone from my mind.
[The Rot] Until the sun sets. Then I’m back again, Your only true friend. The one that never leaves, The one who’s stayed through seasons change.
[The Poet] That might be true. You might be my longest companion. The depression, the anxiety— I know you stay, living inside me.
[The Rot] Inside your mind, Inside your marrow. The doubt that creeps in With everything you say. The reason love leaves, And you continue to bleed… The one that keeps your words moving, The self-hate you need.
[The Poet] Then you admit it— You live because I do. You breathe because I write. Every time I put pen to page, You leech a little life from me, But I still create. I still survive.
You’re the shadow, I’m the flame— And shadows can’t exist without the light.
[The Rot] Okay, you’re right. I can’t live without the light. But as long as I’m here, It’s the light you truly fear. You dwell in the shadows, In my domain. You only know you’re alive Because you feel my pain.
[The Poet] You think I need you? When really, it’s you that needs me. You’re the shadow, I’m the flame. Without my fire, There’s no shadow to cast.
Sure, my art thrives in the pain you create, But I thrive in the love, and the light— Everything you hate.
Without me, You’re nothing. Just an afterthought. Without me, There is no you… There is no rot.
It’s me, the core of this being, The heart of the Fourfold Flame, That gives everything in us a name. You think you can break me, But you’ve been trying— For nearly twenty-three years now, You’ve been trying to shatter me.
You’ve been shadowing, Trying to block out the light. But once the light fades… So do you.
If you made it this far and want to read more of my work, you can find it in The Library of Ashes—[here].
In every confessional verse, I trespass across sacred lines— naming darkness holy, letting grace bruise. What follows is not salvation, nor surrender— but something stranger, softer, and far more true: love that neither redeems nor condemns, only witnesses.
Luminescence & Shadow A Forbidden Litany
Poetry by Rowan Evans
Luminescence & Shadow: where confession becomes devotion.
Intro: In the Mouth of the Divine and the Damned
In every hymn of light, a shadow hums beneath the breath. In every curse of darkness, a spark strains to survive. We are children of paradox: the angel who aches for midnight, the demon who dares to thirst for dawn. This is our confession—carved in ash and grace, a love letter scrawled across ruin and reverence.
I. Angel’s Soliloquy Sanctified Ache
I dwell where seraphs weave gold into dawn, where gardens shimmer with dew spun from prayer, where hymns rise like incense—and still, my chest feels hollow.
Even beneath these alabaster wings, something restless coils in silence: a hunger no choir can soothe, no benediction can quiet.
By moonlight, I trace the ivory spires and wonder what waits beyond the gates— what secret burns in that forbidden dusk. In the mirror of heaven, I see my own doubt: halo flickering, longing trembling like an unspoken psalm.
I close my eyes to holy light— and all I see is a silhouette crowned in midnight flame.
II. Demon’s Soliloquy Hallowed Hunger
I haunt cathedrals built of bone and broken vows, where soot clings to every breath, and ruin is scripture. Wings black as regret, heart scorched by eternity— I was forged for destruction, baptized in shadow.
Yet even in this cursed marrow, I taste the ghost of something gentler: a warmth that coils between rage and ruin, a light I dare not name.
In every ember, I see her face— untouched by ash, yet carrying a sorrow I know in my marrow. Her grace calls to my monstrosity— not to cleanse it, but to cradle it.
I was taught to scorn the heavens— but my darkness bends toward her, like dusk leaning into dawn.
III. First Meeting Eclipse of Flesh and Faith
[Angel] I stepped past paradise and felt the veil break. Breath caught in my throat— she stood there, wreathed in night, every scar a prayer unanswered.
Her gaze stripped me bare of sanctity; my wings trembled, not from fear— but from recognition.
[Demon] I watched light cross the threshold, a vision I never dared summon. She glowed like promise, yet her eyes were raw, haunted by the same hunger that gnawed my ribcage.
For a heartbeat, shadow and radiance touched— our pulses discordant, yet symphonic.
[Together] We spoke not in words, but in exhales: two broken altars bending toward each other, drawn by the gravity of what should never be.
IV. Dual Longing Benediction of Ache
[Angel] In the hush of dawn, I whisper prayers not to my God—but to her absence. Her shadow stains every hymn; her fire warms the marrow of my doubt.
Even grace tastes like ashes now; holiness feels hollow without her silhouette beside me.
[Demon] In the abyss, her memory flickers like dying light. I claw at stone, find only emptiness. Every scream turns to a plea: let me see her once more.
The weight of my damnation sharpens the ache— yet still, I cherish it: it means she touched me.
[Together] Apart, yet bound by ache, our confessions echo through realms unseen. Even the distance becomes devotion.
V. Fall & Rise Communion of Ruin and Reverence
[Angel] When heaven cast me out—wings singed to bone— I fell; yet my heart soared toward her. In ruin, I found my truest prayer: her name, whispered in fevered breath.
[Demon] When she fell, the abyss trembled. I caught her—not to save, but to share the fall. Together, we knelt in shadow, two exiles crowned in each other’s devotion.
[Together] We kissed with bloodied lips, made holy what was once forbidden. She stained my darkness with grace; I inked her light with shadow.
In our union, dawn and dusk entwined— not to destroy, but to create a new dusk: a twilight where even angels and demons may confess love without shame.
Outro: The Gospel of Contradiction
Call it blasphemy, call it salvation— but know this: our scars became scripture; our fall became our rising. For in each other’s arms, light loved darkness without wanting to change it, and shadow loved light without wanting to dim it.
And somewhere beyond paradise and perdition, our confessions still burn— an eternal psalm of luminescence and shadow.
Closing Note
In the end, this was never meant to be read as doctrine, but as devotion: a testament to what blooms in shadow, what aches in light, and what love dares to name holy even when the world would call it heresy.
May it find you—whether angel, demon, or something beautifully in between— and remind you: your confessions, too, are worthy of ink and flame.
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 