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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: surreal poetry

  • Dreaming Wrong | A Surreal Poem About Dreams, Disorientation, and the Uncanny

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Dreaming Wrong came from the strange feeling of being inside a dream that looks familiar but somehow isn’t yours. The moon is still there. The path is still recognizable. The water is still waiting—but everything has been rearranged just enough to make the entire landscape feel wrong.

    I wanted to play with that feeling of dream logic: the moment when your mind recognizes the pieces but realizes they no longer fit together. The ocean becomes a pond, the tide disappears, the moon loses its reflection, and even the heavens become impossible to navigate.

    For me, the unsettling part isn’t that the dream is frightening. It’s that it feels incorrect. Like waking life has been reconstructed by someone who knows what everything is supposed to look like—but doesn’t quite understand what it means.

    Sometimes the strangest dreams aren’t nightmares.

    Sometimes they’re simply dreaming wrong.

    — Rowan Evans

    A surreal nighttime landscape where a person kneels beside a dark pond beneath a pale moon with no reflection in the water.
    Sometimes the nightmare isn’t frightening—it is simply familiar enough to feel wrong.

    Dreaming Wrong
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I slipped from waking life,
    drifted into night—
    but it felt different,
    like the imagery wasn’t right.

    The moon looked paler than usual,
    so I asked if she was sick—
    of course, she didn’t answer back.
    But I followed the same paths
    that I had many nights before.

    I walked along
    until I hit the edge of the—

    pond?

    Where was the ocean at,
    where was the shore—
    and why couldn’t I
    feel the tide anymore?

    Everything felt off there.

    I was on my knees,
    staring at the water—
    where was the shimmer,
    I couldn’t see the reflection
    of the moon—

    I looked straight ahead,
    and the silence seemed
    to stretch further.

    Then my eyes looked to the sky
    and I realized that I couldn’t
    map the path across the heavens.

    It’s like as soon my head hit the pillow—
    I entered somebody else’s mind,
    because nothing about this
    felt like mine—

    I was dreaming wrong.

    That’s the only thing
    that can explain,
    what was going on.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Beach to Beach (How I Get There)]
    A dream becomes a journey between familiar shores and unfamiliar cities in Beach to Beach (How I Get There), a poem about imagined travel, ocean crossings, longing, and the places we hope to someday reach while awake.

    [Where the Metaphors Lead]
    Some truths are easier to write than they are to say aloud. “Where the Metaphors Lead” explores the quiet space between dreams, confession, and the courage it takes to let another person know how deeply they’ve become woven into your inner world.

    [The World Shifted Around Us]
    The world transformed around us—beach, city streets, jungle—but we never moved. Sometimes love isn’t found in words, but in the quiet certainty of someone remaining clear while everything else fades.

    [The Streets I Walk When I Sleep]
    “The Streets I Walk When I Sleep” is a deeply intimate free verse poem about recurring dreams, emotional connection, longing across distance, and the strange feeling of remembering places and moments that have never happened in waking life.

    [Across the Page-cific]
    A playful, autobiographical journey through the strange places poetry can take me—from sandwich heartbreak and pasta diss poems to gothic monsters, mythology, ravens, ghosts, and storms across the page. Beneath the absurdity is something deeply personal: the realization that writing gave me a way to rebuild myself, piece by piece.

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

  • The World Shifted Around Us | A Dream Poem About Love, Silence & Changing Landscapes

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some dreams tell stories.

    Others simply place you beside someone and let the world unfold around you.

    This poem came from one of those dreams.

    What fascinated me wasn’t that the scenery kept changing—from beaches, to city streets, to a dense jungle—but that neither of us moved. We stayed exactly where we were while everything else transformed around us.

    That became the emotional center of the poem.

    Sometimes the people who matter most become the fixed point in our lives. Circumstances change. Places change. Time changes. But certain connections remain steady enough that everything else feels like it’s revolving around them.

    I also wanted to explore the idea that silence isn’t empty.

    Some of the most meaningful moments I’ve experienced—whether in dreams or in waking life—have involved very few words. A glance, a smile, the way someone looks at you for a single second can communicate more than entire conversations.

    By the end of the poem, the world stops changing altogether.

    The dream begins to dissolve, but one thing refuses to disappear.

    Not the beach.

    Not the city.

    Not the jungle.

    Just her face.

    Sometimes that’s what we carry back into waking life: not the dream itself, but the feeling that remained after everything else faded.

    — Rowan Evans

    Two people stand facing one another as the landscape shifts from a moonlit beach to city streets and then into a lush jungle while they remain perfectly still.
    Some people become the constant while the rest of the world keeps changing. Dreams simply make that truth visible.

    The World Shifted Around Us
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I laid down in need of rest,
    it was just a nap, that’s all it was—
    but as soon as I closed my eyes,
    I saw your face—your voice broke the silence.
    Then the void around us shifted,
    it became a beach and then city streets.

    We never changed positions—
    the world changed around us.

    We didn’t drift, didn’t sway—
    we just stood and stayed,
    but the world continued to change.
    First the beach, then city streets—
    before finally shifting into trees
    as far as the eye could see.

    The jungle was thick with trees,
    but not as thick as the humidity.

    With every shift, my vision blurs—
    except the vision of her.
    As the world becomes hard to see,
    she remains steady.

    And her face carries a thousand words,
    even when her voice goes unused.

    We didn’t speak, we didn’t need to—
    even as the world continued to shift.
    From the beach to city streets,
    then the jungle deep—
    the next place was somewhere simpler.

    Somewhere that felt more like peace,
    an escape from the heat and humidity.

    Still not a word was spoken—
    but you gave a look,
    quick and simple,
    but it said so much.
    Because the truth is
    you didn’t need words to tease.

    The world around us softened—
    colors thinning, edges fading,
    but you stayed clear a moment longer,
    steady in the quiet.

    The moment settled into something calm—
    the air cooling, the silence warm,
    your eyes holding mine
    with that same quiet tease—

    in the end, the world stopped shifting—
    no beach, no streets, no jungle heat.

    And the last thing to fade was your face—
    the world dimming around it
    like a curtain drawing closed.
    Even as the dream thinned to nothing,
    your look stayed bright behind my eyelids,
    a quiet afterglow that followed me
    into the stillness of waking.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Every Night, The Same Flight]
    Every night begins with the same flight. Between wakefulness and sleep, an airport appears, a familiar shoreline waits beyond the journey, and the same dream asks whether some destinations find us before we’re ready to find them.

    [Where I Belonged]
    A bedroom becomes an airport in the space between sleep and waking. Where I Belonged explores liminal consciousness, uncertainty, and the strange moments when reality feels suspended between two worlds.

    [Pointing Me Home]
    The final poem in the No Metaphor Left Behind trilogy explores dreams, hope, and belonging. Through moonlight, ocean tides, and quiet conversation, Pointing Me Home reflects on carrying hope long before reaching the place you call home.

    [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.

    [The Streets I Walk When I Sleep]
    “The Streets I Walk When I Sleep” is a deeply intimate free verse poem about recurring dreams, emotional connection, longing across distance, and the strange feeling of remembering places and moments that have never happened in waking life.

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

  • Every Night, The Same Flight | A Dreamlike Poem About Sleep, Longing & Recurring Dreams

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve written about these dreams before.

    The airport. The flight. The familiar shoreline. The city streets I’ve never lived in, yet somehow know by heart.

    They return so often that they’ve become part of my personal mythology.

    Every night seems to begin the same way. As I drift toward sleep, the quiet of my bedroom dissolves into the sounds of a busy terminal. I never question why I’m there anymore. I simply board another flight, knowing it will carry me to the same destination.

    What’s strange isn’t that the dream repeats.

    It’s that every repetition feels less like imagination and more like recognition.

    I’ve never believed dreams need to predict the future to matter. Sometimes they simply reveal the places our hearts keep returning to before we’re ready to admit why.

    This poem isn’t really about airports or travel.

    It’s about the quiet certainty that some destinations seem to choose us long before we choose them.

    — Rowan Evans

    A dreamlike airport terminal blending into a moonlit tropical shoreline with a distant coastal city across shimmering water.
    Some journeys begin the moment we close our eyes.

    Every Night, The Same Flight
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I laid—slowly drifting, I was slipping
    from consciousness to slumber.
    I was boarding that flight,
    the one I take every night.

    The journey always starts the same,
    eyes flutter, like the moths in my stomach.

    Then the sounds of terminals,
    passengers rushing pas me
    in search of their gates.
    But this isn’t an airport—
    it’s just my brain.

    The gate numbers blur,
    shifting like thoughts I haven’t named yet.
    Every announcement echoes
    in a voice I almost recognize.
    I walk toward a destination,
    unsure of where I’m going,
    but somehow already knowing—
    I’m meant to catch a flight,
    of which there are plenty—
    one for every thought of you,
    of which there are many.

    They always lead to the same place—
    always the same shores, the same bay,
    and it always feels like it’s calling my name.
    The way the moon shimmers the same,
    its reflection dancing across the waves.
    Then I always find myself wandering city streets,
    feeling the heat and humidity.
    But I would rather be, nowhere else.

    I wander—
    taking in the sights and sounds,
    bathing in the smells all around.

    I wonder—
    what would it be like if this was home.
    Yeah, what if this was my life now?

    I breathe it in,
    the warmth, the noise, the pulse—
    a life that feels borrowed,
    yet somehow mine.
    It’s a preview that I get every night—
    and I wonder if the dream
    is trying to tell me something
    I’m not ready to say awake.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Where I Belonged]
    A bedroom becomes an airport in the space between sleep and waking. Where I Belonged explores liminal consciousness, uncertainty, and the strange moments when reality feels suspended between two worlds.

    [Pointing Me Home]
    The final poem in the No Metaphor Left Behind trilogy explores dreams, hope, and belonging. Through moonlight, ocean tides, and quiet conversation, Pointing Me Home reflects on carrying hope long before reaching the place you call home.

    [Caller ID: Destiny]
    Sometimes the places we visit in our dreams feel more like home than the places we wake up in. Caller ID: Destiny explores longing, belonging, and the quiet feeling that life is calling you toward somewhere new.

    [Returning to My Bones]
    Some dreams fade the moment we wake. Others leave behind emotions that linger long after reality returns. Returning to My Bones explores the strange grief of leaving a dream that felt real enough to matter.

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

  • Where I Belonged | A Liminal Poem About Consciousness, Dreams & Waking Reality

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem came directly from a real experience.

    I had fallen asleep.

    When I “woke up”, and I had closed my eyes for only a moment, and suddenly I wasn’t in my room anymore.

    I was standing in an airport.

    Not imagining one.

    Experiencing one.

    I could hear jet engines humming. I could hear people talking around me. I could hear footsteps crossing polished tile. It was detailed enough that, for a few seconds, I questioned whether I’d actually opened my eyes at all.

    When I finally did, my bedroom was still there.

    The airport wasn’t.

    But it also didn’t feel entirely gone.

    That strange overlap fascinated me.

    It wasn’t a dream in the usual sense, because I knew I was awake.

    It wasn’t reality either, because I knew where I actually was.

    It was something in between.

    I’ve written many poems about dreams, liminal spaces, and the moments where consciousness feels uncertain.

    This felt different.

    There wasn’t fear.

    There wasn’t confusion.

    There was only hesitation.

    A quiet instinct that if I moved too quickly, I might somehow choose one reality over another.

    The final lines stayed almost exactly as they arrived because I realized they didn’t need an explanation.

    Sometimes the most honest thing a poem can do is preserve uncertainty instead of solving it.

    I still don’t know exactly what happened that morning.

    I only know how it felt.

    And sometimes feeling is the only truth poetry needs.

    — Rowan Evans

    A lone figure stands between a quiet bedroom and a dreamlike airport terminal as the two realities blend together.
    Sometimes waking isn’t returning—it’s deciding which reality you’re standing in.

    Where I Belonged
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I closed my eyes—
    my room around me,
    then the hum
    of jet engines filled the air.
    The muttering of people,
    and footsteps as they
    walked past me.

    It shouldn’t have felt real,
    but it did—

    the cold tile under my feet,
    the distant announcement
    I couldn’t quite make out,
    the sense that everyone
    was going somewhere
    except me.

    I opened my eyes,
    expecting the room
    to steady itself,
    but the air still carried
    the echo of departure.

    It felt like the world
    had changed its mind
    about where I was.
    One moment: carpet, quiet,
    the familiar weight of my own breathing.

    The next: a terminal
    I didn’t remember entering,
    voices rising and falling
    like tides around me.

    I stayed still,
    as if movement would decide
    which reality I belonged to.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Following the Footprints]
    Standing alone on a quiet shoreline, the speaker discovers mysterious footprints leading into the unknown—and realizes they may point not toward another place, but toward the missing parts of themselves.

    [Pointing Me Home]
    The final poem in the No Metaphor Left Behind trilogy explores dreams, hope, and belonging. Through moonlight, ocean tides, and quiet conversation, Pointing Me Home reflects on carrying hope long before reaching the place you call home.

    [Caller ID: Destiny]
    Sometimes the places we visit in our dreams feel more like home than the places we wake up in. Caller ID: Destiny explores longing, belonging, and the quiet feeling that life is calling you toward somewhere new.

    [A Heart That Echoes in Another Language]
    A poetic journey through music across Japan, Korea, China, and the Philippines, exploring how sound becomes identity, memory, and emotional geography.

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

  • 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

    A solitary figure sits beside a moonlit bay as the dreamlike shoreline gradually fades into a quiet bedroom, symbolizing the emotional transition from dreaming to waking.
    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]

  • 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

    A raccoon wearing silk pajamas rides a llama beneath a colorful cosmic sky filled with surreal creatures and absurd imagery.
    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]

  • 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

    A whimsical poet standing beneath a galaxy-filled sky surrounded by glowing constellations, notebooks, and symbols of imagination.
    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]

  • 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

    A solitary figure stands on a humid city street as a woman emerges through a dreamlike haze of light and atmosphere.
    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]

  • 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

    A lone figure surrounded by ravens on broken marble in a dark Gothic setting.
    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]

  • 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

    A solitary figure stands on a rain-soaked city street at night beneath warm lights in a dreamlike urban atmosphere.
    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]