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.
