☽ Introduction ☾

Every garden remembers both the hand that nurtures and the hand that poisons.
This is the confession of Gotham’s scarlet heretic:
not saint, not martyr—but something thorned and blooming,
keeper of ruin and reluctant tenderness.
This is…

The Vigil of the Poisoned Rose
Prose by Rowan Evans

I keep vigil in a cathedral of thorn and ruin—
roots cracking marble, petals soft as bruised confessions.
The vines remember everything: laughter turned lash, devotion curdled to delirium, love that tasted of ash.

The Clown Prince crowned himself in carrion and chaos;
his laughter poisoned every garden it touched, and yet—
once, I let my petals tilt toward that unholy sun,
believing ruin might remember how to cradle something living.

And her—my twisted harlequin:
she knelt beside him in worship and in terror, ribs tattooed with punchlines sharp enough to draw blood.
I saw the bruises masked in painted devotion;
I whispered to her marrow that love was not meant to devour,
that even venom could be tender if the hand that offered it dared to hold, not break.

Yet I, too, am not blameless:
my rage roots deep, my vengeance blooms red as spilled confession.
Mercy and malice entwine in my marrow until I can no longer tell thorn from bloom.
The garden I tend is as much graveyard as sanctuary.

The altar breathes earth’s bloodied breath;
my prayers rise, whispered in poison and petals,
not for absolution, but remembrance.
For the shadows I could not save,
for the lover I could not change,
for the feral girl whose laughter once grew alongside my own.

Some nights, the vines still ache for what we built, even if it rotted from within.
But devotion demands thorns as well as bloom.
I remain—haunted, unrepentant, alive—
because this, too, is devotion:
to love what might destroy you,
to cradle venom as gently as hope,
and to name even your ruin holy.

☽ Benediction ☾

May the ruin remember why it crowned you in thorns.
May your poison feed what still dares to bloom.
And though no god dares absolve you,
may your vigil remain eternal—
a psalm of petals, venom, and marrow-deep mercy.

🌹 Read Next Suggestions:

If this vigil spoke to the marrow of your own shadows, step deeper into the confessional:

The Vigil of the Clown Prince
The Vigil of the Twisted Harlequin
The Vigil of the Broken Saint
The Vigil of the First Son

Each a psalm of ruin, devotion, and the sacred ache of what we dare to love—even when the world calls it madness.

Or visit [About NGCR] to learn more about this movement—and if you feel called, [submit your own writing] to be featured.

If my words speak to you, and you’d like to help keep this flame burning — or if you’d like a custom poem woven just for you (or someone dear) — you can do so here:

Ko-fi — Poetry by Rowan Evans