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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: surreal poetry

  • 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]

  • 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

    A solitary person sits alone inside an empty airport terminal at night while distant runway lights glow outside.
    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]

  • 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

    Dreamlike empty city street at dusk with a lone figure walking through a familiar yet unfamiliar place.
    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]

  • 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

    Dreamlike city street at night with distant glowing figure in soft haze
    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]

  • 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]

  • Pluto Farmer: A Whimsical Poem About Being a Misfit

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Pluto Farmer is a playful meditation on otherness, absurdity, and the quiet rebellion of refusing to contort yourself into someone else’s idea of “normal.”
    Sometimes resistance looks like fire and teeth.
    Sometimes it looks like space carrots, judgmental space chickens, and cultivating joy on a planet no one else bothered to visit.

    This poem is for the weirdos, the outcasts, the artists, and anyone who has ever been told—explicitly or otherwise—that they don’t belong.
    If “normal” is a box, I’m farming on Pluto.

    Illustration of a whimsical farmer on Pluto surrounded by space animals, glowing vegetables, and surreal cosmic elements, representing absurdity and embracing being a misfit.
    Cultivating joy where “normal” doesn’t apply. 🪐

    Pluto Farmer
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’m the twisted
    insane misfit.
    Outcast. Exile.
    Certified weirdo.

    The farmer
    with a ranch on Pluto.
    Two camels in a parked car,
    elephants in jam jars—

    gravity folded in coat pockets,
    constellations mislabeled,
    common sense left on read—

    and somehow
    I’m the problem
    for not fitting neatly
    into their tiny little box
    called “normal.”

    So I—
    just spend
    my time,
    cultivating—
    space carrots,
    raising space cows,
    milking starlight,
    counting moons like loose change,
    gathering space eggs
    from suspiciously judgmental
    space chickens.

    “Oh my god, you’re wearing that? Ew, what the—b-GAWK?!”

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

  • Liminal Static | A Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Thoughts.
    Rapid-fire fragments.
    Electric. Static.
    Nothing whole.
    Pieces. Flipping channels.
    Incoherent.

    Yet—moments slow.
    Threads of you slip through.
     Then they bounce again.

    Twisting.
     Turning.

    Nothing ever sticks.
     Channel flips.  Sparks fly.

    Vision blurs.
     Vision fades.
    Not asleep.  Not awake.

    Caught in this liminal space.
    Threads linger.
      Faint.
       Flicker.

    A signal in the static.
    Am I calm, or about to panic?

    I reach. I grasp.

    Trying to catch thoughts.

    Elusive.
     Butterfly.
      Moth.
       Flame.

    In-between.
     Sane.
      Insane.