I sharpened my silence till it gleamed like steel,
Forged not in fire—but in everything I couldn’t feel.
Each betrayal, a blacksmith’s blow.
Each loss, the bellows. Each lie, the molten flow.
I wore despair like armor—tight and strange,
Till grief grew familiar and hope became change.
I learned to dance barefoot on broken glass,
Till pain bowed to me, letting sorrow pass.
They said I was finished—a relic, a shade,
But shadows only fall when light’s been made.
So I stitched my scars into battle flags,
And drank from wells where the broken brags.
The sword of vengeance does not crave blood—
It drinks redemption like a holy flood.
Not to destroy, but to reclaim
Every stolen dream, every lost name.
I cut through doubt with poetic grace,
A paradox with a warrior’s face.
I did not return with rage in hand,
But with seeds of fire buried in sand.
Now gardens bloom where I once bled,
And I write my victories in wounds once red.
I did not kill—I resurrected,
The ashes of my past now gold-reflected.
For vengeance is not always war,
Sometimes it's walking through a closed door,
With nothing but your truth unsheathed—
A sword of silence finally breathed.
So let them say I came too late,
I arrived with fate beneath my gait.
The blade I bear is not revenge,
But all I lost—rewritten at the edge.