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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: spiritual connection

  • The Voice in the Haze | A Dreamlike Poem About Being Called and Finding Connection

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece came from a dream that didn’t feel like it wanted to stay a dream.

    There’s a strange feeling that comes with certain moments–where something feels unfamiliar, but not new. Like you’re not discovering something, but remembering it.

    This poem lives in that space.

    Between wandering and being called.
    Between searching and being found.

    And in that moment where everything quiets just enough for you to hear something that feels meant for you–where you understand it yet or not.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person walking through a hazy dreamlike city toward a glowing figure, symbolizing a mysterious voice calling them
    Some voices don’t introduce themselves—
    they feel like something you’ve always known.

    The Voice in the Haze
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I had a dream last night—
    I was wandering
    blurry streets,
    not a fog
    but a haze.
    It felt like I had been
    wandering for days.

    Everything felt foreign,
    yet familiar—
    and every sound
    I had heard before.

    Every step
    echoed louder
    as I marched
    with purpose.

    Until I was stopped
    in my tracks—

    I heard it,
    an angel’s voice.
    It called to me.

    Slowly,
    my footsteps
    faded
    until her voice
    was all I could hear.

    The haze thinned,
    as if the world itself
    was holding its breath,
    waiting for me
    to turn toward her.

    And so—
    I did.

    My heart stilled,
    caught between fear
    and something softer,
    something that felt
    like remembering.

    Eyes locked—
    hers
    and mine.

    She smiled.
    I softened.

    Step
    after step,
    I drew closer.

    Until her hand
    met my cheek,
    and I fell
    to my knees—
    tired,
    exhausted
    from wandering,
    searching.

    A single finger—
    that’s all it took,
    and we were
    eye to eye
    again.

    “Rowan,”
    her voice sounded distant,
    even though
    she stood right in front of me.
    “Come to me.
    Come see
    the Philippines.”

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

  • The Lesson Beneath the Veil

    Rowan Evans

    Last night, sleep opened its velvet throat—
    and I fell into the hush between heartbeats,
    where the walls of the world breathe slow,
    and time forgets its name.

    He stood there.
    My father—
    not as ash in the urn,
    but as shadow sewn in dreamlight,
    his voice a paper lantern in the fog.

    He said something.
    Words folded in half,
    creased like love letters unsent.
    A tongue I should have known
    but could not parse—
    like trying to read raindrops
    as they run down glass.

    His eyes were galaxies
    just out of reach—
    all gravity, no ground.
    He smiled like someone
    who’s seen the ending
    and can’t explain it.

    Was it a message?
    A map?
    A test?

    He left me with nothing but silence
    stitched in silk and salt,
    and the ache of unlearned riddles
    tattooed across my chest.

    Now I sit beneath the fig tree of my grief,
    its fruit swollen with unsaid things.
    I peel back memory like skin,
    searching for symbols in marrow,
    for parables in pulse.

    What was I meant to understand?
    That love does not end,
    only alters its architecture?
    That the dead do not speak in answers,
    but in echoes
    and invitations?

    Some lessons aren’t given.
    They’re grown—
    like thorns
    from the same vine as the rose.

    And maybe
    that was the point.