They stitched my chest with lightning thread— Called it honor when I bled. Crowned me king, then broke my throne, Left me ruling ash and bone. The laurel burns. The armor rusts. And every oath collects its dust. I bear no shield. I wear no crown. But I walk through flame and never bow down. The gods forget. The chorus fades. But my wounds outlive the wars they made. These scars don't fade. They teach. They burn. And still—I rise. I do not turn. They carved my name in shattered stone, Beside the heroes left alone. Prometheus bled for giving light. Achilles fell, his weakness slight. Not just legends etched in time— But leaders who paid wisdom's price. Not the silence after fire. Not the cost of climbing higher. Now these wounds have grown to maps, Constellations on collapsed Dreams and empires, plans and scope— Each scar a thread of hidden hope. What broke me once now makes me whole, The lightning in my veins, my soul. I forge my strength from broken parts— The ancient art of shattered hearts. Immortality isn't living forever. It's dying with meaning that never dies. It's the bruise beneath the prophecy. The breath before the scream. The weight of knowing you're the torch and the target in the same dream. I bear no shield. I wear no crown. But I walk through flame and never bow down. The gods forget. The chorus fades. But my wounds outlive the wars they made. No tomb. No end. Just heat. Just stone. These wounds transformed to strength unknown. Immortal wounds. And I walk on— Not alone. The lightning finds the broken places, Fills the cracks with golden traces. What the gods meant to destroy Becomes the light I now employ.
