Wisdom Comes From Scars Not From Seven Times Seven
I have walked through gardens burnt to ash,
And still the roses whispered truth—
That beauty fades, but ache will last.
No tender hand can smooth the seam
Where life was torn and roughly sewn;
It glimmers faintly, like a dream
That once was love, now turned to stone.
The moon remembers every wound,
Though night pretends she’s whole again—
Soft light, but never healing sound.
I do not ask for one more dance;
I’ve learned what mercy costs the heart—
Wisdom comes from scars, not chance.
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