WINGS BUILT FROM WOUNDS

jerry KWATCHEY
@kwatcheyjerry128608
2 hours ago

#poetry
Some of the greatest gladiators ever carved into the memory of time
did not rise — they were wrenched from the quiet corners of their lives.
Not summoned by glory,
not seduced by honor,
but dragged by fate through dust, through sorrow,
through nights that tore their innocence apart strand by strand.

They did not reach for the blade.
The blade reached for them,
pressed itself into their palms
the way destiny sometimes forces a heartbeat
into a chest that never asked to hold such thunder.

Circumstance was their blacksmith:
hammering, folding, breaking, reforging —
each strike awakening a giant
who never knew he had bones made of war
and breath shaped like defiance.

And the poets… ah, the poets —
they are the strangest warriors of all.
They did not choose the holy burden of expression.
Expression chose them,
rippling beneath their ribs like a captive storm,
a living tyrant demanding release.

Language found them in the dark
and whispered impossible things —
ideas too heavy for mortals,
emotions too wild for the gods,
visions too delicate for silence.

Notions became tides,
motions became worlds,
emotions became galaxies —
and the mind, overwhelmed,
split open like dawn,
growing wings not meant for human shoulders,
yet somehow strong enough
to lift the weight of everything unsaid.

For some, greatness is a path.
For others, an inheritance.
But for the rarest —
the warriors shaped by anguish
and the poets chosen by fire —
greatness is a consequence of survival.

They do not merely speak life.
They bleed it.
They carry it.
They become the echo that refuses to die
in the corridors of time.

A Reflection from the SIMU Collection.

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