Redemption in the Ruins

I may not believe in second chances; 

those ghost-track rewinds, those doomed romances,  

the lie that time can unbreak what it shatters,  

that fate rewrites the parts that matter.  

I walk with the wreckage exactly as is,  

no edits, no mercy, no cosmic quiz.  

The past is a blade that remembers its swing,  

and every scar still knows its sting.  

But redemption; that’s carved in a different bone,  

a truth that grows in the dark, alone,  

a vow you make when the world’s gone cold,  

to rise from the wreck with a grip that holds.  

Second chances feel like a rigged reprise,  

a pretty excuse, a convenient disguise,  

a wish that the universe might revise;

but redemption stares you dead in the eyes.  

It’s the grind of grit in a gutted soul,  

the slow rebuild from a shattered whole,  

the fire you feed when you’ve lost control,  

the oath you swear when you pay the toll.  

I don’t trust clocks to turn back their hands,  

or broken bridges to suddenly stand,  

but I trust the ones who crawl through the sand  

and claim their life with a bloodied demand.  

Redemption isn’t granted; it’s taken in stride,  

earned in the nights where you almost died,  

forged in the moments you swallowed your pride  

and chose to live on the other side.  

So no, I don’t believe in second chances;

but I believe in the soul that advances,  

in the grit that grows through the darkest stances,  

and finds redemption  

in the wreck it dances.