Fragments Still Move Forward
A Poetic Monologue

There is no glory here.
Only the soft crunch of broken glass
beneath boots that do not stop.
I walk because I must —
not toward anything,
just away from the wreckage
that used to be me.
🖤
My reflection is a shattered mirror
sprawled across a floor I can’t clean.
Each shard holds a different version —
some screaming,
some praying,
some so quiet they vanish.
And yet all of them are me.
All of them drag the same corpse forward.
🖤
They call it resilience.
But resilience is just ruin that didn’t die.
It’s the cracked porcelain smile
on a face that’s long since forgotten
what joy ever felt like.
I don’t thrive.
I persist.
I decay in motion.
🖤
The soul — if that’s still the word —
isn’t whole.
It’s a jagged thing now.
Fractal, fragmented,
splintered like frost on old bone.
I hold it together with ritual —
a rep, a step, a sentence scrawled in silence.
Little acts of defiance
against the erosion.
🖤
I do not rest.
Rest invites thought.
And thought reminds me.
So I move.
Discipline, not desire.
Motion, not meaning.
Because if I stop, the weight collapses me.
Because if I pause, I remember who I was
before the fire took it all.
🖤
Each day ends
with more debris in my chest.
More time burned.
More hope buried under lists and calories
and minutes spent pretending this all builds to something.
🖤
But I still do it.
Not because I believe.
Belief is a luxury for the unbroken.
I do it because I haven’t lost the war —
only every battle.
🖤
I am dust held together by habit.
A dead star with legs.
A mind gnawing on its own roots
just to feel something other than the cold.
🖤
But I take the step.
And then the next.
And if all that’s left of me is ash and echoes,
then let them be the kind
that still moved forward.
🖤
🪓 Like what you read?🪓
🪙 Then toss a coin into the fountain.
Make a wish —
for wilder words, sharper truths,
and more wild-folk with wild hair doing wild things.
Each offering stirs the water, feeds the fire,
and helps one such beast keep writing beneath the stars.
More Vivid Poetry From Ulf
About the Creator
Arthur Pendry
Writer. Reader. Poet. Reluctant participant in the modern world. My mind is usually doing twelve things at once, so I try to stick to four: reading, writing, walking and exercise. The rest is classified.
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