surreal poetry – Poetry by Rowan Evans

Returning to My Bones | A Poem About Dreams, Waking, and Quiet Grief

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

I’ve written a lot of poems about dreams.

At this point, it’s probably one of the most consistent threads running through my work.

The reason is simple:

Dreams don’t feel imaginary to me.

They feel remembered.

Not while I’m fully awake. Not after I’ve had time to process them. But in those first moments between sleeping and waking, there’s often a strange overlap where the emotions arrive before reality does.

For a brief moment, everything feels true.

The conversation happened. The place existed. The person was there.

Then awareness returns.

The room comes back. The walls come back. The weight of the body comes back.

And with it comes the realization that none of it happened.

That’s the feeling this poem is trying to capture.

Not the dream itself, but the return from it.

The title became the key.

Because waking up doesn’t feel like opening my eyes.

It feels like returning to my bones.

Returning to gravity. Returning to limitation. Returning to the version of reality that can be touched and verified.

The strange thing is that the emotions don’t disappear when the dream does.

The dream fades.

The feelings stay.

And sometimes that lingering feeling creates a kind of grief that is difficult to explain to people who don’t experience dreams this way.

A quiet grief.

Not because something real was lost.

But because, for a moment, it felt real enough to matter.

— Rowan Evans

Some dreams disappear with the sunrise. Others stay with us long after we’ve returned to our bones.

Returning to My Bones
Poetry by Rowan Evans

The moon shimmers over the bay,
suspended in the sky—
the way I feel suspended in her eyes.

And it makes me feel crazy,
because she’s never looked at me—
not really, not in reality.

It’s only happened in dreams.

That’s when I drift
between awake—
and asleep.

This is when
my mind
starts to
wander.

Then it snaps.

I’m back in my room again.

The moon loses its shimmer,
the bay fades from view.
My body tenses as I become
aware again,
of the mattress beneath me—

of the walls that enclose me.

I feel the weight pressing in.
The reality of returning
to my bones.
It’s a quiet grief—
realizing that the emotions
will linger,
but the truth is
it never happened.

And somehow,
that hurts the most.

Journey into the Hexverse…

[Maybe You’ll Want Me Too]
A poem about the subtle shift from knowing someone to constantly thinking about them. Through humor, metaphor, and confession, Maybe You’ll Want Me Too explores affection, attachment, and the fragile hope that being wanted might matter more than being needed.

[Before My Feet Touch the Floor]
What happens when your dreams feel more real than your waking life? Before My Feet Touch the Floor explores the strange grief of waking up, the lingering memory of dream selves, and the quiet question of which version of us is truly real.

[Recognizes Home]
A free-verse poem exploring the difference between love as dependency and love as choice. It challenges the idea that love must be need-based, instead centering the quiet strength of choosing someone while still remaining whole on your own.

[Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3)]
A moonlit shoreline, a rowboat full of ducks, a piggybank with no cents, and a confession hidden in plain sight. Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3) explores how humor, wordplay, and absurdity can become a side door to vulnerability when the truth feels too difficult to say directly.

[L Words & Heart]
A playful, self-aware poem about love, longing, loyalty, and the quiet ways another person can reshape our inner world. What begins as humor slowly reveals a heartfelt confession about affection, imagination, and the faces that linger in our dreams.

[Just Before Waking]
A street that feels familiar. A life that hasn’t happened yet. Just Beyond Waking explores the fragile space between dreams, memory, longing, and the quiet feeling that some futures are already waiting for us.

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

Jun 26, 2026 1:00 AM

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Raccoons in Silk Pajamas | An Absurdist Free Verse Poem About Language Letting Loose

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

This poem started where a lot of my more playful pieces begin: with a chain reaction of absurd images that refused to behave.

I didn’t sit down with a structure in mind. I just let the language run until it started building its own logic—one that doesn’t really care about realism, linear progression, or whether raccoons should realistically be wearing silk pajamas in the first place.

The “Space Chickens” at the beginning weren’t planned as a motif. They became one because they felt like the kind of strange, mildly accusatory presence that only makes sense in a world where camels are in parked cars and elephants are stored in jam jars.

From there, the poem just escalates.

Raccoons appear. Then llamas. Then the question of pajamas becomes a philosophical problem. Somewhere in the middle, the poem realizes it is no longer interested in consistency—it’s interested in momentum.

There’s a moment where the speaker tries to impose logic:

“Don’t be absurd.”

But by that point, absurdity has already won.

What I find interesting about this piece is that it still has a kind of emotional continuity even without narrative stability. It moves the way thoughts move when you’re tired, distracted, or laughing at your own internal associations—jumping from one idea to another through sound, memory, and cultural reference rather than logic.

Even the ending, with its sudden shift into pop culture and cinematic reference, is less about conclusion and more about acknowledgment. The poem becomes aware of itself mid-collapse and decides to lean into it rather than resolve it.

In that sense, it’s not really about raccoons.

It’s about the way language behaves when you stop trying to control it.

And sometimes, that’s where the most honest writing shows up.

— Rowan Evans

When logic leaves the room, language starts having fun.

Raccoons in Silk Pajamas
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I had to get away
from the Space Chickens,
they were a little too judgmental—

always questioning what I wore,
shouting implied curses
spoken in cursive.

It was camels in parked cars,
elephants in jam jars…

Now it’s—

raccoons in silk pajamas,
and they’re not alone—
they’re riding llamas.

“Are the llamas
wearing silk pajamas?”

Don’t be absurd.
That’s the weirdest thing
I’ve ever heard—

llamas in pajamas?

No, just raccoons
and bananas.

I was once a
farmer on Pluto,
a librarian on Mars—
a poet amongst the stars.
Now I’m just
an astronaut in the ocean,
rolling in the deep.

Dude—
you just referenced Adele.

Like it is 2001 again.
It’s a Space Odyssey

Journey into the Hexverse…

See where it all began.

[Pluto Farmer]
A whimsical absurdist poem about being a certified weirdo, farming space carrots on Pluto, and refusing to fit into anyone else’s definition of “normal.”

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

Jun 19, 2026 10:06 PM

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It’s Just Me but Super | A Poem About Imagination, Creativity & Becoming More Yourself

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

This piece exists because my brain occasionally grabs a pun by the throat and refuses to let go.

It started with a single phrase:

“Wanda the Cosmo.”

The moment I realized it sounded like wander the cosmos, the entire poem became inevitable.

From there, it turned into a collision of things that shaped me growing up: cartoons, superheroes, imagination, ridiculous wordplay, and the habit of taking a joke far beyond the point where a reasonable person would stop.

The references are intentional, but they aren’t really the point.

What interests me is the thread connecting all of them.

Timmy Turner. Doug Funnie. Quailman.

They’re ordinary people living inside worlds that are a little bigger, stranger, and more magical than everyday life.

And in some ways, that’s what writing has always felt like to me.

A blank page is ordinary until imagination gets involved.

Then suddenly you’re wandering the cosmos. Building constellations out of language. Turning metaphors into transportation.

The speaker in this poem never actually becomes a superhero.

Nothing supernatural happens.

No powers. No cosmic upgrades. No secret destiny.

Instead, the final line reveals the joke that was hiding in plain sight the entire time:

“It’s just me but super.”

Because that’s what creativity often feels like.

Not becoming someone else.

Not transforming into a different person.

Just becoming a more exaggerated version of yourself for a little while.

A little louder.

A little stranger.

A little more willing to follow an absurd idea all the way to the stars.

And honestly?

That’s where some of my favorite poems come from.

— Rowan Evans

Sometimes creativity isn’t becoming someone else—it’s becoming a more imaginative version of yourself and following the idea all the way to the stars.

It’s Just Me but Super
Poetry by Rowan Evans

They say I’m fairly odd—
call me Timmy Turner.
Watch me Wanda the Cosmo,
a trip across the stars—

Get it…
Wanda the Cosmo?

I am saying, watch me
wander the cosmos—
it’s a trip across the stars.
Every stanza a constellation
shaped in star dust,
inked in the space between.

And when I come back,
re-entry will have me feeling Funnie—
I’ll write about it like
“Hey, journal, it’s me, Doug.”
I cannot fail, man—
like my alter ego is Quailman.

It’s just me but super.

Journey into the Hexverse…

[100 Grand and a Book Deal]
A playful collision of candy bars, comic book heroes, basketball legends, and cosmic metaphors. Beneath the jokes lies a reflection on twenty-three years of writing, creativity, and the dream of building something lasting one line at a time.

[Copy of a Copy]
A sharp, self-aware poem about originality, imitation, and the search for an authentic creative voice. What begins as a diss gradually reveals itself as a meditation on authorship, influence, and the things that can never truly be copied.

[Lone Wolf Theology]
A philosophical pop-culture poem exploring freedom, identity, and self-authorship through the lens of superheroes, antiheroes, mythic archetypes, and personal rebellion. A declaration of autonomy in a world determined to write your story for you.

[L Words & Heart]
A playful, self-aware poem about love, longing, loyalty, and the quiet ways another person can reshape our inner world. What begins as humor slowly reveals a heartfelt confession about affection, imagination, and the faces that linger in our dreams.

[Just Beyond Waking]
A street that feels familiar. A life that hasn’t happened yet. Just Beyond Waking explores the fragile space between dreams, memory, longing, and the quiet feeling that some futures are already waiting for us.

[Twin Suns, Sister Moons]
A poem about distance, longing, and the quiet pull of someone who lives beneath a different sky. Between twin suns and sister moons, the heart keeps reaching for home.

[It’s You I Choose]
A poem about devotion, vulnerability, and the quiet decision to stay. Sometimes love isn’t certainty—it is choosing someone anyway.

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

Jun 10, 2026 1:00 AM

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Just Beyond Waking | A Poem About Dreams, Destiny, and Future Love

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

This piece came from the feeling of recognizing something before you fully understand it.

Not memory exactly.
Not déjà vu.
Something softer and stranger than that.

I’ve always been fascinated by those moments where emotion arrives before explanation—when a place, a person, or a feeling seems deeply familiar even though you know you’ve never truly experienced it before. Like your mind is brushing against a future version of your life before you’ve physically reached it.

That became the emotional center of this poem.

The shifting between bedroom and street, dream and waking, reality and unreality, was meant to feel unstable on purpose. I wanted the speaker to exist in that liminal space where certainty dissolves and longing becomes vivid enough to feel almost tangible.

Humidity became important while writing too. It creates this physical heaviness throughout the piece—something atmospheric and emotional at the same time. The world feels thick with anticipation, almost electrically alive, as if reality itself is trying to push through the veil separating possibility from arrival.

And then there’s the ending.

What mattered to me most was that the final realization isn’t framed as destiny in some grand cosmic sense. It’s quieter than that. More human.

Not:
“I remembered her.”

But:
“I’m becoming someone capable of reaching that life.”

That distinction changes everything.

Because the poem ultimately isn’t about escaping reality.

It’s about slowly awakening into a future version of yourself that already exists somewhere just beyond fear, distance, uncertainty, and waiting.

And sometimes the first glimpse of that future arrives like a dream before it arrives like a life.

— Rowan Evans

Some futures arrive first as dreams, waiting quietly just beyond waking.

Just Beyond Waking
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I stood on an unfamiliar street,
feeling unfamiliar heat—
skin sweat‑slick.
I was lost in thought,
stuck in that spot.
The air around me buzzed,
electric with the hum
of life moving past.

I’ve felt this before—
but was it
dream or memory?
I don’t know.
Can’t be sure
anymore.

Vision shifts as I drift,
street fading into bedroom walls.
The bustling street’s noise—
just music in my headphones.
Blink and I’m back again,
don’t know what to think,
don’t know what’s happening.

Back on that unfamiliar street,
I feel the pull creep—
so I begin to move my feet,
one step and then another,
one foot and then the other.

Reality is shifting,
I’m losing grip—
I’m slipping.
Don’t know what’s the dream,
and what’s me
awakening.

I trip and stumble,
almost tumble into the street—
catch myself at the last second,
clutching the wall
as if I might drift away.

Then I hear it.
A sound, an echo—
a voice piercing the silence.
Eyes scan the room
as humidity creeps
across my skin.

I struggle
to pull in a breath,
and again
the sounds of the city
surround me.
Again I’m back
on that same street—

but I’m no longer alone.

As my eyes focus,
slowly she comes into view.
A gentle smile
spreads across her lips—
a soft touch on my arm,
a line traced by her fingertips.

The city hums around us,
alive, waiting.
And something in her silence
steadies the world—
not familiar,
but right.
Not remembered,
but meant.

And in that moment
I understand—
this isn’t memory,
isn’t dream,
but the first soft glimpse
of a life
I’m still walking toward,
waiting for me
just beyond waking.

Journey into the Hexverse…

[Twin Suns, Sister Moons]
A poem about distance, longing, and the quiet pull of someone who lives beneath a different sky. Between twin suns and sister moons, the heart keeps reaching for home.

[It’s You I Choose]
A poem about devotion, vulnerability, and the quiet decision to stay. Sometimes love isn’t certainty—it is choosing someone anyway.

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

Jun 5, 2026 1:14 AM

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The Unkindness Descends | A Gothic Poem About Ravens & Transformation

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

This piece began with a single image:

a person kneeling on broken marble while ravens circled overhead.

From there, the symbolism unfolded naturally.

Ravens have carried countless meanings across cultures and mythologies throughout history. Omens. Messengers. Witnesses. Archivists of the dead. Harbingers of transformation. Keepers of memory. In some traditions they are feared. In others, revered.

I didn’t want to narrow them down to one interpretation here.

What interested me more was the tension between collapse and observation—the feeling of being seen during moments of unraveling, and the uncertainty of whether those watching forces are condemning you, mourning you, studying you, guiding you, or simply recording what happened.

That’s why the poem never fully explains the ravens.

Even the collective noun “unkindness” became important to me while writing. It carries two meanings at once: a literal group of ravens, and the emotional atmosphere surrounding the speaker. The word itself becomes part of the tension.

By the end of the piece, the ravens remain unresolved intentionally.

They part. They watch. They follow.

Whether that final image feels threatening, protective, spiritual, psychological, or transformative depends almost entirely on how the reader chooses to see them.

And I think that uncertainty is the point.

— Rowan Evans

They descended like witnesses—whether to condemn, mourn, guide, or remember was never made clear.

The Unkindness Descends
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I kneel on broken marble,
the unkindness circling overhead.
Ravens watching as I come undone.

Witnesses to my fall,
the ravens land—
one by one,
the unkindness descends
upon me.

I am lost in the black mass—
wing and feather flapping
as ravens move to circle me.

My eyes scanned the ravens
as they surrounded me,
each uttered something—
a word, a message.

Perhaps, it was a lesson?

Maybe I read it all wrong,
and they were just keeping record—
witnesses to my collapse.

I rose to my feet.
The ravens watched me.

I moved.
They parted
like the Red Sea.

Each step forward,
their eyes traced my path.
As I moved through,
they closed in behind me.

Following.

Journey into the Hexverse…

[I Write Cathedrals]
“I Write Cathedrals” explores faith, doubt, belonging, and the search for meaning beyond certainty. Through Gothic spiritual imagery and confessional reflection, the poem examines how writing can become a sacred space for questioning, wonder, and the people who feel displaced by traditional structures of belief.

[Drought Resistant]
“Drought Resistant” is a confessional poem about growing up poor in California’s Central Valley—where triple-digit heat, EBT cycles, dry ramen, and hard landscapes become part of emotional memory. Blending humor, slang, and working-class reflection, the poem explores survival, regional identity, and complicated love for the place that shaped you.

[Escaped to the Page]
“Escaped to the Page” is a confessional meta-poem about individuality, artistic identity, and surviving through writing. Blending sharp confidence with emotional vulnerability, the poem explores the difference between shared labels and lived experience—and the ways art becomes inseparable from the life behind it.

[Ink as a Second Mouth]
“Ink as a Second Mouth” explores the distance between thought and speech, and the ways writing can become a form of survival, continuity, and self-translation. Through confessional imagery and reflections on growth, identity, and articulation, the poem examines what it means to keep becoming through language.

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

May 31, 2026 1:00 AM

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The Streets I Walk When I Sleep | A Poem About Dreams, Love, and Emotional Longing

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

I didn’t invent the conversation in this poem.

That’s what makes this piece feel different to me.

Usually when I write about dreams, I’m translating emotions into imagery after the fact—trying to capture the atmosphere more than the exact details. But this time, I woke up and realized I could still remember almost everything I said.

Not perfectly. Dreams never survive intact.

But the emotional core of it stayed with me long after I woke up.

The strange thing about recurring dreams is how they stop feeling fictional after a while.

The streets become familiar. The air feels recognizable. The people inside them start feeling emotionally real in a way that’s difficult to explain to someone else without sounding a little unhinged.

And that’s part of what this piece explores.

The disconnect between physical reality and emotional reality.

I know I’ve never walked through Manila in waking life. I know I’ve never stood face to face with her like that. But emotionally?

Some part of me feels like I already have.

That’s the part that’s difficult to articulate.

Especially because the dream wasn’t dramatic. There was no cinematic confession in the rain. No grand climax.

It was quiet. Warm. Awkward. Honest.

And maybe that’s why it affected me so much.

Because the dream version of me said the things the waking version still struggles to say out loud.

Not in metaphors. Not hidden inside symbolism.

Just plainly.

And then, right before I heard the answer—

I woke up.

— Rowan Evans

Some places live in the heart long before the body ever arrives there.

The Streets I Walk When I Sleep
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I had a dream last night—

it’s a line, I’ve written
a thousand times—

and I’ll write it
a thousand times more.

Because dreams
don’t feel like things
that happened
in my sleep.

They feel like memories.

There are times
I have to remind myself—

I’ve never been to Tokyo,
I’ve never walked the streets
of Manila or Seoul.

I can’t explain it,
definitely can’t name it—
why these connections
feel so strong.

Yet, they are the streets
I walk when I sleep
and that’s still the same,
it’s never changed—

since I was fourteen.

I’ve just been to
Manila more lately.

I had a dream last night…

It was her and I,
standing eye to eye—
and I said everything
I’ve been too scared to say.

“I love you,”
my voice came out
softer than expected.

“I always knew,”
I continued.

“Since the moment
something in me changed,
and you didn’t demand it.
It just happened.”

I took her hands
in mine.

Sun was gone,
but you could still feel the heat—
but the real killer?

The way the humidity clung,
making this moment
sticky sweet.

“I’ve known
since the moment I met you
you were special.”
I said, my voice near a whisper.

I felt the way you tensed up.
You’re not used to this either.

“It took me six days
to realize things had changed.
I wrote that first poem,
and in my chest, I knew—

I found home.”

I felt the tremor in your breath,
head tilting back
and we made eye contact.

Your mouth opened,
you were about to speak—

then I woke up.

Journey in the Hexverse…

[Memories From a Life Yet to Come]
Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory. “Memories From a Life Yet to Come” is a reflective free verse poem about longing, displacement, emotional alignment, and the strange comfort of recognizing yourself more clearly in dreams than in waking life

[Separate Timelines]
“Separate Timelines” is a surreal and deeply introspective free verse poem about emotional distance, time zones, vulnerability, and the fear of losing a connection that already feels meaningful before the words are ever spoken aloud.

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

May 20, 2026 12:05 AM

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Separate Timelines | A Poem About Distance, Time Zones, and Unspoken Love

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

I’ve always been fascinated by the strange emotional weight of time zones.

How someone can become such a consistent part of your thoughts that you start measuring your own day against theirs.

Checking the clock. Wondering if they’re asleep. Wondering what their sky looks like while you’re staring at yours.

At some point, distance stops feeling geographical and starts feeling temporal.

That feeling became the foundation for this piece.

The airport in the dream felt symbolic almost immediately while writing it—a place built entirely around arrivals, departures, waiting, and crossing paths for brief moments before separating again.

And in the middle of that emptiness, there’s this presence that feels familiar before it’s visible.

I think that’s what emotional connection can feel like sometimes.

Not certainty. Not possession. Not even clarity.

Just recognition.

This poem also came from the tension between wanting to speak honestly and being afraid of what honesty might change.

Because vulnerability always carries risk.

Sometimes the fear isn’t rejection itself— it’s the possibility of losing a connection that already means something to you.

So the poem lives in that suspended space: between dream and waking, between silence and confession, between leaving and returning.

— Rowan Evans

Some connections feel close even across separate timelines.

Separate Timelines
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I had a dream last night—
I sat alone in an empty airport.
Not a soul. Not a sound.
I was the only one around.

It was just me
as far as the eye could see.

Yet, I heard the hum
of jet engines still—

Then there was
the sound of movement,
footsteps echoing in the distance.

Eyes scanning—
trying to locate the source.

Slowly—

I rise.

Getting to my feet,
I stumble
trying to get myself steady.

The footsteps grow clearer—

slow, deliberate,
like someone who already knew
I’d be here.

And in the stillness
of this moment—

silence folds in on itself,
waiting for me
to decide
whether to run
or stay.

The footsteps stop.

My breath catches,
not from fear,
but from the strange familiarity
of a presence I can’t yet see.

And my legs feel heavy—

like they remember something
my mind doesn’t.

I can’t see you—
but I feel your presence.

It’s like you and I
live on separate timelines,
simultaneous
but different—

like we can only exist like this.

Because—
my day
is your night,

and your day
is mine
just the same.

It might seem simple to some,
might even sound a little dumb—

to get caught up
on things like that—

but I’ve been stuck
on her time
since I put widget
on my phone.

Listen to me…

there I go again,
loose lips
let truths slip—

even when they’re
better left unsaid.

Not because I didn’t want to say it.

I did.

But I don’t know
if the timing’s right,
or how you feel—

but I do know
you’re worth the risk
of my heart shattering,
I just don’t know
if I’m strong enough
to handle a connection
breaking.

So I keep quiet—

not because
I don’t want to speak,
but because
I’m scared to.

So I sink
back into my seat—
and I feel your presence fade.

I don’t know if you left
or if I’m awake—

but I promise…

I promise,
I’ll be back.

Journey into the Hexverse…

[Memories From a Life Yet to Come]
Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory. “Memories From a Life Yet to Come” is a reflective free verse poem about longing, displacement, emotional alignment, and the strange comfort of recognizing yourself more clearly in dreams than in waking life.

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

May 19, 2026 12:05 AM

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Dreaming of Other Streets – A Poem About Belonging, Memory, and Feeling Out of Place

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

I’ve had variations of this dream more times than I can count.

Different streets. Different cities. But the feeling is always the same—familiar, grounded… like I’m not discovering something new, but returning to something I somehow already know.

It’s a strange kind of recognition.

Not tied to memory in any clear way, but still deeply felt. Like something in me understands the place, even if I don’t.

This piece came from sitting with that feeling.

Trying to understand whether it’s about location… or connection.

Whether it’s about where I am—or who I haven’t found yet.

— Rowan Evans

Some places feel like home—even when you’ve never been there.

Dreaming of Other Streets
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I often dream
of walking streets
not my own.

And they feel
more like home
than the only one
I’ve ever known.

As if my feet remember
a life my body
hasn’t lived—

a map etched
into bone
long before
I learned to read it.

Like echoes
of a life misplaced,
a memory
with no origin—
a familiarity
I can’t explain,
but never question.

Maybe it isn’t the streets
I’m dreaming of.

But the people
who would walk them
beside me—

the ones who felt
like home
long before I knew
what home meant.

Maybe I wander
because nowhere
has ever held me
long enough
to claim me.

So I keep searching
for a place
that feels like mine.

In dreams,
I walk with certainty—
no hesitation,
no fear,
as if the ground itself
knows my name.

But waking,
I am foreign
even to myself.

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

Apr 19, 2026 7:12 PM

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Just Before I Arrive – A Dream Poem About Longing, Connection, and Almost Finding Her

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

Some dreams don’t feel random.

They feel intentional.

Like you’re being led somewhere–through places that don’t exist, but still feel familiar. Like every step means something, even if you don’t understand it yet.

This piece comes from that kind of dream.

The kind where you’re not just wandering–you’re following.

Following a feeling. A voice. A pull that feels personal.

And just as you get close enough to understand it–

you wake up.

— Rowan Evans

Somewhere between the dream and the waking world—she was waiting.

Just Before I Arrive
Poetry by Rowan Evans

In my dreams last night,
I wandered unfamiliar
city streets—

the lights humming
like they knew me,
though I’d never
walked there before.

Every corner
felt like a memory
I hadn’t lived yet,
pulling me deeper
into the maze.

That’s when
I heard it—

her voice,
off in the distance.

Another thread
in the pull.

Her words
echoing through—

Come find me.
I won’t be hiding.

This is an invitation—
from me to you.

With every word,
I moved closer
to the source.

But just before
I arrived—

I sat up,
opened my eyes,

and rejoined
the waking world.

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

Apr 17, 2026 9:03 PM

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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

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]

Apr 3, 2026 8:48 PM

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