By Maharnav Bhuyan
What Breaks the Bone, or Sets the Soul; you ask?
Did I leap, or was I shoved?
Did I soar, or was it a free fall?
Fingers clawed for stars, now dust—
Was I mourned, or cursed, or thrust?
Is this ruin, or a birth?
Plummeting, or scorched by earth?
If I scream, will voids reply?
Or swallow sounds from where shadows of my past selves lie?
Deep beneath, where silence breeds, reminding me of my misdeeds.
Do I shatter, or plant new seeds?
The heavens spit, the ground dissolves,
A restless ache, a mind that solves.
No rope to grip, no path to roam,
Just drifting through a starless dome.
The weight of gods, the sting of chains,
Their whispers clot in rusted veins.
No arms to bind, no roads to tread,
Just time unwound, a hollow thread.
Yet in the black, a pulse so vast,
The dread and I entwine at last.
What if the plunge was carved in stone—
To strip the flesh and free the bone?