Unbroken Still

Introduction

There are moments in every life when the mind turns into a quiet battlefield — when the weight of existence presses down, and the questions of why and what next echo without answer. Unbroken Still is a poem about resilience and inner strength, born from such moments of collapse and renewal.

It speaks to the soul’s quiet defiance — the hidden courage that keeps us walking even when faith falters and the road ahead dissolves into fog. Through imagery of falling, rising, and rediscovering light, this poem explores what it means to endure, to heal, and to awaken to one’s own undying pulse of being.

Because sometimes, survival itself is the most sacred form of prayer — the act of remaining unbroken still.

Unbroken Still

I have fallen into moons—

their hollow mouths gaping,

hungry for confession.

The earth took me in its silence,

cradled my broken faith

like a child too tired to cry.

I rose anyway.

Tripped over the roots of banyans

older than memory,

their veins whispering

the names of all who fell before.

In the half-dream of my unraveling,

I saw heaven blink,

hell breathe,

and between them—

the trembling mind,

a battlefield lit by doubt and hope alike.

Is this the end?

The question circled me

like a vulture made of stars.

Days bled into nights,

nights into burning daylight,

each asking the same unanswerable thing:

Why must I keep walking?

And from somewhere

beneath the rubble of thought,

a voice rose—

not thunder, not wind—

but a quiet pulse,

steady as breath:

Rise again.

You are not finished yet.

And I did.

I followed that whisper

as one follows a scent of rain

through a dying forest.

The path bruised my feet,

but also learned my rhythm.

Faith was not light—

it was weight,

and I carried it like a promise

that refused to fade.

I have fallen again—

oh yes, again—

but now the earth greets me gently.

Pain has turned soft,

like the hand of an old friend

who once left but found me again.

So I walk on.

Not for purpose.

Not for clarity.

But because motion itself is prayer—

and breath,

that ancient song of persistence,

still hums inside me.

I walk,

because to stop

would betray the vow

I made when I first rose—

that love,

however dim,

would be my lantern

through the longest night.

And so,

I rise through the craters,

again and again—

a small flame

against an infinite dark,

burning,

becoming,

unbroken still.

Poet’s Note

This poem grew from the quiet spaces between collapse and continuation — from those unseen moments when life presses its weight upon you, and yet, somehow, something within refuses to break.

It is not about triumph.

It is about endurance — the kind that hums beneath despair, the kind that does not need to be loud to be real.

I wrote this for the days when purpose disappears, when the questions circle like vultures, and faith feels like a burden more than a blessing.

And yet, even then, a whisper persists — gentle but immovable — saying: Rise. Go on. Breathe again.

That whisper, that pulse of persistence, is what I call being unbroken still.

Closing Reflection

Perhaps being unbroken still is not about never falling, but about remembering that even in the fall, there is movement — a quiet continuity of spirit that refuses to end. Each stumble, each silence, becomes part of the rhythm that remakes us.

If these words stirred something within you — a memory, a question, or a quiet recognition — sit with it for a while. Sometimes what heals us most is not an answer, but the realization that we are still here, breathing, and becoming.