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.