←

Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: transformation

  • Roots & Wings – A Poem About Leaving, Growth, and New Horizons | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Sometimes a place stops feeling like home long before you actually leave it. The streets still know your name, but something in you has already begun drifting toward another horizon.

    This poem came from that feeling – the quiet moment you realize your roots are no longer meant for the soil you’re standing in. It’s not always about running away; sometimes it’s about allowing yourself to grow somewhere new.

    Roots & Wings sits in that space between leaving and becoming. Between the life that shaped you and the one waiting somewhere beyond the horizon.

    We carry out roots with us, even when we learn how to fly.

    — Rowan Evans

    A bird flying toward the sunset above palm trees and the ocean, symbolizing freedom and new beginnings.
    Sometimes growth means planting new roots—and trusting your wings to find the horizon.

    Roots & Wings
    Poetry by Rowan Evans
    (written February 18th, 2025)

    These streets whisper my name, but I no longer listen,
    my roots ache for softer soil, where the sun glistens.
    I’ll plant myself where the palms embrace the sea,
    then let the wind carry what’s left of me—
    a bird unbound, chasing horizons yet unseen.

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

  • Distant Shores | A Poem About Longing, Growth, and Becoming

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem came from a recurring dream and a familiar pull — the quiet urge to move toward something that feels meaningful, even if the destination isn’t fully defined yet. It isn’t about a place so much as the feeling of possibility, of momentum returning, of wanting to grow into someone worthy of the journey ahead.

    Some shores are literal.
    Some are emotional.
    Some only exist because someone made you believe they might.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure standing on a quiet shoreline at dawn, looking out toward distant waves and a glowing horizon.
    Some journeys begin long before you ever leave—when the shore starts calling you back to yourself.

    Distant Shores
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    It’s kind of wild how,
    you’ve been in my dreams
    for a while now.

    You’re always radiant as ever,
    you look like heaven—but better.
    You inspire every poem, word and letter,
    I write them with love, respect and care.
    If I could, I would always be there—

    I swear
    I will cross oceans,
    whether I catch a jet,
    swim or stowaway.
    I swear
    I will cross these waves,
    and we will walk the same shore
    some day.
    I swear—

    You make me, want to be
    a better me.
    To strive for more,
    instead of giving up
    like I had before.
    I had allowed myself
    to become trapped,
    inside the borders
    of my mind and
    country.

    You added fuel to a fire
    that had been silently burning.
    Right there, inside my chest.
    The embers smoldered in silence,
    until you, and the fire reignited—
    and now it roars.

    Once again, I dream of walking
    distant shores. But now…
    Now, I want them to be…

    Yours.

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

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [Toward Somewhere I Can Breathe]
    A poem about feeling disconnected since fourteen, longing for somewhere that feels like home, and finally understanding that the journey isn’t about escape — it’s about alignment.

    [Disconnected Since Fourteen]
    A confessional poem about growing up disconnected—from place, from home, from belonging—and the quiet realization that the signal was never stable to begin with.

    [Still Tilting Elsewhere]
    A reflection on growing up with a compass that never pointed home—tracing the quiet rebellion of longing, the patience of dreams, and the feeling of always being angled toward somewhere else.

  • Moth — A Poem About Cyclical Attraction and Desire

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece is about attraction as a cycle —
    how some things draw us back, even when we know the cost.
    The ending is the beginning.

    A moth hovering near a candle flame in the dark, symbolizing cyclical attraction and desire.
    The ending is the beginning.

    Moth
    Poetry by HxNightshade

    drawn to your flame.
    Burn me up
    with your love—
    watch me ascend,
    begin again.

    It’s a loop—
    time twisting in
    on itself.
    I feel like I’ve
    lived this before.

    I’m just a moth…

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

  • Loki: A Poem About Transformation, Chaos, and the Norse Trickster God

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I wrote Loki on March 1st, 2025, not as a tribute to the pop-culture trickster, but to the old god—the one who exists in contradiction, liminality, and transformation. The Loki of myth is not tidy. He is not easily moralized. He is fire and fracture, ally and adversary, mother and monster, savior and destroyer. He is becoming.

    This poem is less about mythology as history and more about mythology as mirror. Loki has always represented what unsettles systems built on rigidity: fluidity, change, refusal. In many ways, he is the god of those who do not fit neatly into the halls they are born into. Those who are renamed as “problem” when what they truly are is uncontainable.

    Writing this was an act of reclamation. Of honoring the sacredness of contradiction. Of recognizing that to shift, to change, to refuse a single shape, is not betrayal—it is divinity in motion.

    A mystical, shapeshifting figure surrounded by fire and shadow, evoking the Norse god Loki and the power of transformation.
    Not bound by name. Not fixed in form. Becoming is the divine act.

    Loki
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I have been son and mother, father and daughter,
    A whisper on the wind, a fire in the dark.
    I have been the tempest and the calm,
    A shifting shape, a name unchained.

    I was never made to fit in their halls,
    So they twisted my name into a curse.
    They carved my legacy with hands that feared
    What could not be tamed, what would not kneel.

    They call me trickster, traitor, monster—
    But what is a god if not a story rewritten?
    What is truth when bound by mortal tongues,
    When my form is fluid as the rivers they drink?

    I have worn every face, walked every path,
    Yet still, they wish to bind me to one.
    But I am the echo of change, the chaos of fate,
    A dance between dusk and dawn.

    Try as they might to paint me still,
    I will slip through cracks, through time, through names.
    For I am not one, nor two—
    I am all, I am none…

    I am Loki.

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

  • Alchemist of Ink (All Sixes) – A Poem About Turning Pain Into Power

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some poems are confessions.
    Some are exorcisms.

    This one is alchemy.

    Alchemist of Ink (All Sixes) came from that familiar edge—when the weight presses in, when the mind contracts, when the darkness feels like it might finally win. But instead of letting it consume me, I let it become something. I let it turn into ink.

    This poem is about that moment of reclamation.
    About taking what hurts and making it mine.
    About refusing to be only what the darkness names me.

    If you’ve ever felt yourself folding inward—this is for you.
    If you’ve ever made art out of survival—this is yours too.

    A shadowed poet with glowing eyes as black ink pours from their hands, transforming into swirling symbols of power in a dark, gothic setting.
    Turning darkness into language. Pain into power. Ink into alchemy.

    Alchemist of Ink (All Sixes)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I am all sixes when its needed,
    this darkness,
    your hatred feeds it.

    I can feel it—
    crawling up my spine,
    that creeping feeling.
    It twists around my mind,
    contracting.

    I can feel it squeeze,
    as I fall to knees.

    My eyes flicker and flash,
    fade to black—
    as you see
    my face distort.
    Twisted reflection.
    Personified depression.

    Can you see—
    as I begin to bleed ink?
    It pours from me,
    covering fingers,
    hands and arms.

    It twists,
    never relents.

    …

    I’m a motherfucking
    alchemist,
    the way I take my pain
    and change it.
    I’ll write like hell,
    to subtly rearrange it.

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

  • One Year — A Poem About Quiet Transformation | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    One Year is a quiet celebration of someone who walked into my life and changed it without ever trying to. It’s a poem about the kind of connection that doesn’t demand attention — it simply exists, steady and transformative. This piece marks one year since I met my muse—she helped me see the world with more color, softness, and clarity. It’s a thank‑you, written in the only language I know best.

    “Golden light pouring through open curtains into a softly lit room, symbolizing emotional renewal and transformation.”
    Light has a way of finding us — sometimes through people we never expected.

    One Year
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    It’s been one year today
    since I met you.
    One year since you
    came into my life,
    and quietly rearranged
    everything.
    I’ve not been the same since.
    I see the world in a brighter
    kind of hue—
    like the colors became true.
    Would you believe me
    if I said it was all because of you?
    Would you?

    Because you didn’t break anything
    when you arrived—
    you just moved the furniture
    of my heart and mind,
    opened the curtains,
    let the light in.
    I hadn’t even realized
    how dim it had been
    until you stepped inside.

    Even in your darkness,
    you became my light—
    and I tried to be that for you too.
    Because I saw the weight you carried,
    I just wanted to carry it with you.
    I still do.

    And maybe you’ll never know
    the full weight of what you changed—
    how you steadied the racing thoughts,
    how you carved a little sanctuary
    in the ruins I tried to hide.
    You brought color
    to my grayscale world,
    and I’d walk through
    every shadow you carry
    just to keep your flame
    from burning out.

    One year in,
    I still marvel that you’re here—
    not just passing through.
    And I remember how you said:
    “You met me at my darkest,
    I want you to see me at my brightest.”
    Here’s the thing;
    I already do.
    Because, when I look at you…

    I see you lighting every room
    you step inside.

    You can find more of my work in my archives, [The Library of Ashes].