he was a man shaped by war
his hands carved in iron and grief
what he carried was heavier than shields
not the blood on his skin—
but the echo of his decisions,
piercing his sleep like a spear
they told him he was a hero
yet his soul flinched at their songs
there is no glory in the scream
of a child who dies screaming
no victory when your heart
is left among the ruins
he looked into the fire once
and saw his reflection split wide
half of it still fighting the battles
the other half begging
to be forgiven by gods
he was no longer sure existed
some wounds are not visible
but twist themselves deeper each day
he tried to leave the war behind
but found pieces of it stitched calm
into the fabric of his being
where silence tastes like ash and guilt