The Man Who Walks Alone Is Dangerous When He Is Still
He walks through rain that knows his name,
the streets remember every step he’s made.
His silence hums — a blade without a sheath,
his thoughts are storms that never fade.
He does not beg the world to see,
nor crave its shallow, trembling praise.
He burns within a quiet sea,
a ghost that slept through better days.
The moon keeps watch, the dogs all hush,
the wind avoids his shadow’s chill.
There’s danger not in what he’ll do —
but in the fire he keeps that's still.
His heart, once open, sealed by scars,
beats steady as a blacksmith’s will.
The man who walks alone is war,
and yet — he’s mercifully still.
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