he grew in the shadow’s cradle where light was a stranger and silence spoke in thunder.
among the red flames, he stood a dark flame itself, unyielding, sharp as obsidian.
not softer, not less but forged from the stillness between storms.
his roots drank from broken earth, his veins held stories etched in crimson glass, fractured but gleaming a quiet war etched beneath his skin.
they called him wild, a thorn without a rose, but he was more a sentinel of shadows, a keeper of scars, a guardian of unseen battles.
he bled without sound, he bore his fractures like medals of fire each shard a testament to survival, each wound a map of the battles he won without surrender.
he did not seek to belong, only to endure, to thrive where others would break, to bloom like the black thorn that thrives in the night’s embrace.
There is another part of it. It is called The Black Rose. Please check that out too. Thank You for being the part of this beautiful poem and thankyou for being here.