The Poet Who Walked Alone

He walked where no one dared to tread, Through fields of fire and cities dead. No crown, no map, no hand to hold— Just ink for blood, and truth for gold. They watched him pass with judging eyes, A ghost, a myth beneath their skies. But he, with silence as his guide, Wrote thunder where the stars would hide. He wore no mask to please the crowd, His voice was never trained to bow. He etched his pain in verse and stone, And found his peace in being alone. His words were winds that cracked the gate, Of kings who feared the hands of fate. He spoke of love not sold or caged, Of time, and gods, and wounds unnamed. Each night he lit a candle bright, And whispered poems into the night. Not for applause or fleeting fame, But to remind the void of name. For though he walked a lonesome mile, His truth could stretch a thousand while. And in his path, the seeds were sown— By The Poet Who Walked Alone.