Some poems arrive quietly, others wade out of the marsh, draped in memory and bone-deep ache.

Cathedral of Cattails & Confessions is a piece I wrote on a day when the past felt heavy—but instead of turning away, I chose to listen. It’s about the quiet holiness of persistence, the tenderness blooming in our broken places, and the stubborn, sacred act of remembering.

Even in ruin, we remain: tender, unyielding—cathedrals of our own confessions.

I hope this piece reminds someone (maybe you) that what the world calls “broken” can still cradle the sky’s reflection. 🖤

Cathedral of Cattails & Confessions
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I march through the marsh in my mind,
listening to whispers of yesterday’s regrets.
Their voices cling like cattail seeds—
soft, but stubborn, refusing to let go.

Each footstep sinks into sorrow,
yet still, I keep moving—
because even stagnant waters know
how to cradle the sky’s reflection.

And the moon, twisting and stretching
across ripples my footsteps create,
reminds me: even in supposed brokenness,
there is something beautiful to be seen.

Who’s to say what’s broken, anyway?
Perhaps these cracks aren’t flaws,
but fault lines where tenderness blooms—
veins of silver and gold threaded through bone,
places where dusk gathers its prayers.

Maybe the ache itself is holy,
a testament etched in marrow and silt,
proof that I dared to keep walking,
ankle-deep in memory, knee-deep in grace—
searching for tomorrow
in the mirrored hush of still water.

And what if nothing is truly broken?
What if these regrets are only lessons in disguise,
and every scar, a story still warm with heartbeat?
Maybe being bruised and cut
isn’t defeat at all,
but proof we dared to live
in a world that can be so unforgiving.

And yes—there are nights I nearly sank,
hands trembling with apologies I never spoke,
words fossilized in the throat,
prayers whispered to a God I’m not sure I believe in.
Yet even then, my pulse betrayed me—
stubborn, soft, unwilling to quiet.

And when the night leans close,
I’ll wear my bruises like relics,
let the reeds bow their heads in witness.
For even in ruin, I remain—
tender, unyielding,
a cathedral of cattails and confessions,
unbroken by the weight of my own remembering.

If this poem spoke to you, share your thoughts below or explore more of my work at The Library of Ashes.
Stay tender. Stay defiant. 🌙🖤