Sunday, August 3, 2025

🪶 The Arena Is Not my Name

I stood where echoes feed on stone,  
where verdicts wear robes of delay.  
They called it duty, I called it dusk—  
the hour when silence learns to speak.
 
My hands held systems,  
not swords.  
My battles were made of questions,  
my wounds—of withheld replies.
 
They said: wait.  
The wind will change.  
But I am not a leaf.  
I am the tree that chose to shed.
 
Resignation is not a letter.  
It is the breath between two truths:  
the one they write,  
and the one I live.
 
I do not die in the arena.  
I dissolve from it—  
like ink from a forgotten decree,  
like fire from a cold rebellion.
 
Now, I teach with ash and light.  
 
And if they ask where I went,  
tell them:  
he walked out  
wearing his own name.

  

No comments:

Post a Comment

🪶 The Arena Is Not my Name

I stood where echoes feed on stone,  where verdicts wear robes of delay.  They called it duty, I called it dusk—  the hour when silence lear...