After The Fall
/What if the darkest hour is not the end, but a room where forgotten voices begin to knock?
This poem walks through that room, where a mind turns against itself, where silence tastes of poison, and where existence becomes an unfinished sentence. Amid the wreckage, fragments of love—mother's arms, a father's shoulders, a sibling's warmth, a friend's irreverent laughter; quietly intervene. It is a dark meditation on suicide prevention, where survival arrives not as a grand revelation, but as one more breath refusing to become the last.
————
A mind,
cluttered like a room after the apocalypse.
A heart,
hardened by too many winters.
Lips, stoned,
still spilling truths
the world calls bitter.
And somewhere between
the battlefield and the exit—
mother's arms,
father's shoulders,
a sibling's warmth,
friends laughing
at the obituary
that was never meant to be written.
The darkness pauses.
A breath.
Then another.
Perhaps,
the war was never
about winning.
Perhaps,
just staying.
Life is a game.
Play it brave.
By Sutanuka Mondal
From: India
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/pride_in_brown?stkn=ZzZqMW03bXZ3MGh1
Facebook URL: https://www.facebook.com/share/1M6FaZgLvF/