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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: spiritual poetry

  • Crossroads of Flame – A Poem About Choosing the Unknown | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Crossroads of Flame was born from a moment of choosing discomfort over safety, and creation over silence. It reflects the turning point between who I was and who I am becoming—not only as a poet, but as the many voices I carry within me. Roo, Hex, B.D., and I each walk different inner landscapes, but all of us share the same ember: the belief that the unknown is worth stepping into, even when it burns.

    This poem marks a new phase of intention. A deliberate path forward. A reminder that comfort is quiet, but purpose is loud—and I am choosing to listen.

    — Rowan Evans

    Poetic gothic illustration of a lone figure at a crossroads under a twilight sky, facing a wild burning path toward the unknown.
    A crossroads beneath a burning sky—the moment intention becomes transformation.

    Crossroads of Flame
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I stand at a crossroads—
    two paths stretch beneath a waning sky,
    one worn and familiar, lined with shadows I know,
    the other narrow, veiled in bramble and whispered risk.

    The first hums a lullaby of comfort,
    soft, forgiving, predictable.
    I could walk it blindfolded,
    count the cracks beneath my feet,
    and know I will not falter.

    But the second calls in a voice I barely recognize,
    a tremor beneath the wind,
    a hint of fire beneath frost.
    It asks nothing of me—yet demands all:
    my attention, my courage, my deliberate steps.

    I carve my own instead.
    Through tangled shrubs and corridors of darkened wood,
    I trace a path that no map can hold,
    listening to the pulse beneath my ribs,
    the hum that answers back:
    Roo, Hex, B.D., and me—
    four voices intertwined,
    four flames in one vessel,
    guiding, guarding, urging.

    Alone—yet never alone—
    I step carefully, feeling each stone,
    each thorn, each sigh of wind through the leaves.
    The safe path still beckons behind me,
    a ghost of ease I might have chosen.
    But the wild one waits, insistent,
    its promise stitched with challenge
    and the weight of things I have yet to become.

    I am the storm and the calm,
    the knife that severs hesitation,
    the hand that steadies,
    the ember that refuses to die.
    I am the whisper in the dark corridors,
    the laughter in the bramble,
    the ache that drives me forward.

    Tonight I choose not comfort.
    Tonight I choose intent.
    Tonight I choose to step beyond what I know,
    into the narrow, the jagged, the luminous unknown,
    and let the path unfold beneath my careful flame.

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

    Leave a comment and tell me which path you would choose.

  • Sermon for the Fractured – Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece is a meditation on resilience, self-reclamation, and the sanctity of imperfection. I wrote it as a sermon for anyone who has ever felt broken, misfit, or misaligned with the world’s expectations. It’s a reminder that divinity exists in survival, in truth-telling, and in the courage to rebuild oneself repeatedly. For the fractured souls out there: this one’s for you.

    — Rowan Evans

    A lone figure stands in a dimly lit gothic cathedral, bathed in colored light from stained glass, representing resilience and sacred rebellion.
    A sermon for the fractured soul—finding divinity and strength in imperfection.

    Sermon for the Fractured
    Sermon by Rowan Evans

    Every poem I write
    is a sermon for the fractured soul.
    Saint with a pen,
    heathen in the mind.
    I’m a preacher’s child
    gone wild—
    welcome to my church,
    it’s a service for the misfits.

    I crowned myself a deity.
    My divinity
    lives somewhere between
    G-O-D and Lucifer.
    I’m a morningstar, lightbringer.
    Or a shadow
    walking through a holy world.

    Your holy book
    banned my name.
    Heaven doesn’t want me,
    Hell doesn’t either.
    So I made
    Purgatory my kingdom.

    You don’t have to praise me,
    you don’t have to worship.
    I don’t need blind faith—
    for the miracles I create.
    You don’t have to suffer
    to prove a thing—
    your breath is devotion enough.

    You don’t have to
    sell me your soul.
    I will bless you,
    while you remain whole.

    I am not a deity without flaw—
    I’ve been cracked, fractured,
    put back together
    by my own hands.
    I’ve rebuilt myself,
    time and time again.
    So I don’t ask for perfection,
    I ask for confession,
    truth and witness.

    You can find more of my gospel in the Library of Ashes. [The Library of Ashes]

  • Gold in Open Hands — A Poetic Liturgy of Generosity by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    ✦ Author’s Note ✦

    These words are a quiet liturgy for those who give without spectacle, who hold the weight of others’ lives as tenderly as their own. They are for the unseen saints of shadowed streets and cold apartments, for the hearts that carry more than they should and still bloom.

    Hands scattering golden seeds in a warmly lit, shadowed apartment, symbolizing generosity and care.
    “Scatter hope like seeds; let generosity be the only currency that matters.” — Rowan Evans, Gold in Open Hands

    ✦ Invocation ✦

    Come, children of night and marrow,
    kneel with me at the altar of giving.
    Let your hands open—trembling or steady—
    and let the gold you never sought
    spill into the cracks of the world.
    Feel the sanctity of care,
    the devotion in each quiet gesture,
    and let your generosity burn like incense
    in the sacred dark.

    Gold in Open Hands
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    If wealth ever found me,
    if fortune nestled itself in my palm,
    I would not clutch it like a miser with hollow eyes,
    but scatter it like seeds in the wind,
    watching hope take root in the cracks
    where the world has long since turned its back.

    I would raise walls not to tower,
    but to shelter—
    an apartment standing tall
    with doors wide enough for the weary,
    windows letting in morning light
    to chase away the cold of forgotten nights.

    I would feed stomachs before egos,
    fill hands with warm bread,
    not empty promises,
    pour into art where young hearts
    can paint their unspoken dreams
    in colors that whisper louder than words.

    I have never needed gold-lined pockets,
    only enough to smooth the edges of struggle,
    to soften the weight for those I love,
    to replace the ache in their chests
    with the quiet ease of knowing—
    tonight, the rent is paid,
    tonight, the table is full,
    tonight, they do not have to barter their joy
    for survival.

    I do not wish for riches.
    I wish for smiles,
    for burdens lifted,
    for a world where generosity
    is the only currency that matters.

    ✦ Benediction ✦

    May the gifts you scatter in silence
    take root in hidden gardens of the world.
    May your hearth shelter the weary,
    your bread feed the empty,
    and your hands become a sanctuary.
    May kindness echo long after the candles die,
    and may the quiet currency of your heart
    be the only wealth that endures.

    Related Poems by Rowan Evans

    The Gospel According to the Girl in the Graveyard Dress — A dark, lyrical meditation on grief, survival, and the power of voice in shadowed times.

    Punchline — A reckoning with life’s absurdities, finding grace in jagged edges and the humor that pierces pain.

    The Daughter of Plath — A conversation with Sylvia Plath, exploring inheritance, literary ghosts, and the ache of legacy.

    Manila Time — A devotion across distance and time, a quiet, patient love that witnesses every storm and still stands.

    Step deeper into the shadows and light of Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.

    ✦ Poetic Commissions by Rowan Evans ✦

    Every word I write is a devotion, a fragment of shadow and light carefully shaped into verse. On my Ko-fi, I offer custom poems, personalized rituals in language, and lyrical messages crafted just for you—or someone you wish to honor, surprise, or remember.

    Whether you seek:

    A poem for a loved one, friend, or muse

    A ritualized or thematic verse for special occasions

    A written reflection to say everything you struggle to

    …each commission is approached with care, reverence, and the intensity of my signature Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.

    ✨ Special Offer: Use code NGCR25 at checkout to receive 25% off any commission until the end of the month. Let these words become your keepsake, your offering, your moment of devotion.

    Commission a Poem on Ko-fi →

  • Always With You: A Poem for Grief, Memory, and Eternal Love

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece is a deeply personal offering — written in memory of my father, and for anyone who has ever lost someone they still speak to in the quiet.
    “Always With You” is more than a poem; it is a ritual. A remembering. A conversation between this world and the next.

    If your heart is carrying absence today, may this be a place where you feel held.
    You are not alone in your grief.
    And those we love?
    They walk beside us, always.

    A glowing ethereal figure walks beside a person beneath a full moon, surrounded by soft pastel tones and swirling leaves, symbolizing presence after loss.
    “They walk beside us, even when we cannot see them.”

    🕯️ Invocation 🕯️
    “To the Ones Who Dwell in Memory”

    Come, tender souls, who carry echoes in your chest —
    Who speak to stars and find silence speaking back.
    Come, those who mourn in whispers and rise in memory.
    Let this be your sanctuary. Let this be your candle.
    May the veil grow thinner with each word.
    May the presence you long for sit beside you now.

    Always With You
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    When the world feels heavy, and shadows creep near,
    When you hear your name whispered soft in your ear,
    Or a brush of wind grazes warm on your skin,
    Know that it’s me, love, I’m always within.

    I am the breath in the quiet of night,
    The shimmer of stars that whisper their light.
    When your heart feels alone, and the silence too loud,
    I’m there in the stillness, wrapped in the shroud.

    For when you laugh, I echo the sound,
    And when you grieve, I’m earthbound, around.
    I dance in your tears, like raindrops that fall,
    I’m the caress in the winds, your name in their call.

    I’m with you when you stumble, when you stand tall,
    In your moments of triumph, and when you feel small.
    I watch you evolve, from the dark to the light,
    Like a pastel phoenix, rising, so bright.

    Even in absence, I’m not far away,
    For I walk beside you, each step of the way.
    You may not see me, but I hold your hand,
    As you journey onward, I help you withstand.

    The moon carries my love, the stars hold my gaze,
    As I watch you navigate through life’s winding maze.
    Though I’ve stepped beyond what your eyes can see,
    In your every heartbeat, you carry me.

    You’ll feel my warmth when the sun touches your face,
    In the autumn breeze, my arms still embrace.
    And when you look to the sky, with hope or despair,
    I’m in every corner, I’m always there.

    For I know you’ll make me proud, you already have,
    You’re stronger than you know, more than you believe.
    I love you to the moon, and far beyond time,
    Always with you, forever entwined.

    So when the world feels cold, or the day feels too long,
    Remember, my darling, in you, I belong.
    Even though it feels like I’ve gone from your side,
    I am with you always, an eternal guide.

    ✨ Benediction ✨
    “And Still, They Walk With Us”

    Go gently now, wrapped in the warmth of memory.
    Let the winds remind you: love does not vanish.
    Let the moonlight remind you: absence is not emptiness.
    Speak their name into the quiet —
    And know they answer in the rustling leaves,
    In the dreams, in the stillness,
    In the beating of your resilient, aching heart.

    They are not gone.
    They are transformed.

    And they are always, always with you.

    Read Next (Suggestions)

    [You’re Not Alone] — A Poetic Promise of Hope & Support
    [Luminescence & Shadow] — A Forbidden Litany
    [The Gospel of Softness III] — 13 Psalms for the Tender-Hearted

    Or explore the full archive in [The Library of Ashes]—and if your own confession aches to be written, [commission a custom poem here].

    NGCR25 at checkout to get 25% off your ‘request’…

  • 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.