by (The Soul-Warrior)

I think I was a warrior once—
not of war, but of wounds.
My blade wasn't sharp with steel,
but soaked in silence,
forged from the fire of forgiveness.

I see him—
my past self,
kneeling in the ruins of choices,
bloodied not from battle,
but from bending.

My hand rises—
not in anger,
but to end the echo of suffering.
A mercy...
to silence the screams he swallowed.

But he smiles.
That broken boy with fire in his eyes.
He places his hand on my shoulder and says,
"Congratulations..."

"You endured."

"You didn’t fall. You didn’t give up."
"You wore the spikes like a crown,
bled wisdom from your wounds,
and now—
you are wiser than me."

And in that moment,
the blade in my hand dissolved,
and all that was left...
was peace.

BY A BOY WHO CHOSE SOLITUDE

I never craved penthouses kissing the clouds,
nor mansions where silence feels cold.
I worked through storms,
not to rise above the world—
but to step away from its roar.

All I ever wanted
was a wooden hut in the hills—
where rivers laugh like children,
where the wind hums forgotten songs,
where rain feels like the sky washing off
what hurt the most.

The sun…
a father’s hand on my shoulder.
The moon…
a mother watching over dreams.

In cities, I wandered,
craving their lights,
but never their noise.
I loved them—
the quiet ones, the old ones,
where people moved like whispers.

But even there,
I couldn’t find the silence
that lets you hear yourself think.
So I built it—
in my mind first,
then in the earth beneath my feet.

Why?

Because I needed a place
where my voice echoes back to my ears,
so I know I still exist.
So I know I still feel.

I am tired of competition.
Of proving.
Of performing.
I want a life like a straight line—
not because it's boring,
but because it's honest.

And love?
I stopped chasing it.
Because no one holds hearts like I do.
And mine—
it’s not made for games.

It's fragile.
Like sunlight on still water.
It breaks quietly.

So I gave it back to the only hands
that never dropped it—
my own.

In solitude,
I found my teacher.
My shelter.
My self.

Now I know what I want.
Now I know who I am.
And when I sit, alone, under the rain,
I don’t feel empty—

I feel home.

—a poetic short

The world had ended a thousand times,
not with bombs or fire,
but in the quiet way hope fades.

And yet here he was—
a lone figure sitting on a wooden bench,
where the sea whispered to the shore like a tired lover returning home.

The wind was soft… like it knew his name.
It danced through his long, unkempt hair,
lifting strands as if trying to remind him
he was still alive.

The sun didn’t shout from the sky—
it leaned gently from the East,
painting the air gold,
turning every dust particle into a drifting crystal.
A silent snowfall of light.

Flowers bloomed wildly beside the stone road.
They weren’t perfect.
Some petals torn by wind,
some bent with age—
but they lived without apology.

He didn’t cry.
There were no tears left.
Only numb eyes that watched beauty pass
without reaching out.

Then he saw her—
not in flesh,
but in the dust-light.

A girl with eyes like forgotten songs,
running barefoot in the gold haze,
laughing, spinning—
just like she used to,
or maybe never did.

She waved.
Smiled.

And slowly, she broke into golden glitter.
Like she had become part of the sun itself,
leaving only warmth
and the ache of something that almost stayed.

The wind stilled.

And he whispered,
“You were never mine to keep…
but you were mine to remember.”

The reel would spin again tomorrow.
But for now—
he stayed.
Just a man, on a bench,
with the sea in front of him,
and the ghost of love in the wind.