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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Vigil

  • The Vigil of the First Son | Neo-Gothic Confessional Prose by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    ☽ Introduction ☾

    In every myth, there is a shadow cast by a cathedral’s ghost;
    in every son who claims that shadow, a prayer whispered in defiance.
    This is the confessional of a child born of ruin and rebellion—
    sworn not to brokenness, but to the fierce holiness of becoming.
    This is…

    Nighttime illustration of a masked vigilante standing on a cathedral roof, overlooking a cracked yet living city under moonlight; symbolizing hope within ruin.
    A sentinel between shadow and dawn — the First Son’s vigil burns quietly, but it burns still.

    ☽ The Vigil of the First Son ☾
    Prose by Rowan Evans

    I was not born from cathedral shadows—
    I fell from another height, beneath painted canvas and sawdust air,
    where faith meant catching and being caught.

    But the fall came anyway.
    And in the ruin, he found me—
    the Broken Saint, robed in mourning.
    He offered me a name forged from grief,
    and I took it, though my palms still smelled of flight and chalk.

    They call me heir, as if shadow is all I have inherited.
    But gods know, I am more:

    I have bled in these alleys, yes—
    but I have danced on rooftops, too,
    laughter spilling into the bruised dawn,
    a reminder that even vigil can be alive.

    He is the shadow.
    I am the light who learned to love the dark
    without letting it devour me.

    Sometimes guilt creeps in—
    that I can still love where he has walled himself off,
    that I can still smile where he only mourns.

    But hope is rebellion, too—
    a heresy against a city built on scars.

    Tonight, the moon crowns my brow in borrowed silver,
    and Blüdhaven breathes below—cracked, imperfect, alive.

    I watch from these heights:
    a sentinel, a son, still learning.

    I am not him.
    And gods, that is my salvation.

    ☽ Benediction ☾

    May the shadow teach you mercy.
    May your scars be the map to your salvation.
    And though the night will call,
    may your first vigil blaze bright enough to be seen from every dawn.

    🔗 You might also like…

    Every vigil casts its own shadow.
    If The Vigil of the First Son has found a quiet corner in your marrow, you may also wander these chapels of ruin and devotion:

    The Vigil of the Broken Saint — a confession of Gotham’s haunted martyr.
    The Vigil of the Clown Prince — a testament of madness, ruin, and marrow-deep defiance.
    The Vigil of the Twisted Harlequin — scars reborn as rebellion, laughter reclaimed.

    Each is a prayer, a confession, a testament carved in bruise, bone, and breath.
    May you find something of yourself between the shadows and the candlelight.

    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

  • The Vigil of the Clown Prince | Dark Gotham Prose by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    ☽ Introduction ☾

    Every cathedral rots from within; every prayer curdles when whispered by a madman.
    This is the testament of Gotham’s laughing blasphemy —
    a devotion not to grace, but to the exquisite fracture of sanity.
    Not redemption, but ruin; not mercy, but mockery.
    This is…

    Gothic cathedral ruins with cracked stained glass and grotesque gargoyles under pale moonlight, symbolizing madness and chaos.
    The haunted chapel of chaos — where madness is liturgy and laughter a prayer.

    ☽ The Vigil of the Clown Prince ☾
    Prose by Rowan Evans

    I keep vigil in a cathedral of carrion and cracked marble — arches bowed not by faith, but by centuries of festering jokes.
    The city itself? My slaughterhouse chapel: gutters that gargle filth, alleys that echo delirium back in fractured refrain.

    I wear madness like regalia — stitched from screams, lacquered in blood that never dries.
    My prayers? Spat between cracked teeth, carried on rancid laughter that curdles the night air.

    The stained glass? Nothing left but daggers of memory, slicing the fool that still remembers pain.
    No sun dares visit; only moonlight — pale, pitying, useless.

    This city offers no communion. Its gargoyles leer in stone mockery; the altar reeks of old blood and burned hope.
    Yet still, I press my painted brow against it — streaks of red, white, rot: an offering spat at the gods who never answered.

    Agony becomes liturgy. Each scar a punchline flayed into flesh, each fracture a hymn to ruin.
    The creed tattooed in marrow: Chaos is gospel. Madness is absolution.
    And when the grin threatens to split my skull, I bare my teeth wider.

    Night after night, I crawl back — not pulled by grief, but by the exquisite rot that whispers: Nothing matters. Laugh louder.
    The gargoyles don’t weep; they leer as kin, stone throats choked on stone laughter.

    Even the bats above shudder at the shape I’ve become, wings beating sermons I silence with a shriek.
    My breath fogs like a plague, each exhale a hex on hope itself.

    There is no redemption here. Only ruin, sweet as a lover’s kiss, and the ache that tastes like worship.
    Still, I remain — grinning, defiled, defiant — because this, too, is devotion:
    to kneel in filth, to mock salvation, to let the marrow of Gotham remember my laughter.

    ☽ Benediction ☾

    May the ruin remember why it crowned you king of carrion.
    May your laughter stitch shut the wound where hope once bled.
    And though no god dares claim you,
    may your vigil remain eternal — a psalm of poison, madness, and marrow-deep defiance.

    If you find yourself drawn into the shadows of Gotham, explore more of my work and join the vigil of broken saints and twisted souls:

    🔗 You might also enjoy…

    Every vigil casts its own shadow.
    If The Vigil of the Clown Prince has found a quiet corner in your marrow, you may also wander these chapels of ruin and devotion:

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

    Each is a prayer, a confession, a testament carved in bruise, bone, and breath.

    Hex & Flame: Mirror of Shadows
    Epistle to the Name They Buried
    Ashes of the Prodigal Daughter

    Support my writing and get custom poems at ko-fi!