In the forests of compassion I planted, 

I first became lost, 

Offering shade, offering breath, a sanctuary at any cost. 

Unknowingly, I wove the threads of my own demise,

 For every branch I nourished turned to poison in disguise. 

Everything I showed mercy to became a dagger in the end;

 Stabbing me where I was defenseless, where I used to call a friend.

The stars were fair, at least; distant, noble, and still,

 Granting a wish, however false, with a graceful will. 

But life, like a cruel hand breaking a child's favorite toy,

 Leveled the mountains I leaned on, seeking only to destroy. 

That treacherous smirk remained as my soul was torn apart, 

The grin of a witness who left me in the ruins of my heart.

The bitterest part was this: the world kept spinning, cold and fast, 

The streets laughed, the lights flickered, as if my death would pass.

 As I searched for the shadow of guilt among my own debris, 

I saw that being a victim was the price of a soul too free.

 The guilt was never mine; I know that clearly now, The fault lies in a blind world that breaks a merciful vow.

Now, somewhere within me, hope walks on shards of glass, 

My feet are bleeding, my spirit fading, but I let the shadows pass.

 A voice whispers: "It is over, the verdict of this tale is read.

" Yet every tear I shed is a storm of rage, waiting to be fed. This silence is not surrender; 

it is the sacred calm before the gale; It is not so easy to bid farewell to this wounded, bleeding tale.

What they call the end is merely the drying of the ink,

 But the page is still bleeding, standing on the brink.

 While you think I am finished, in the dark of the deepest scar, 

My soul weaves a new armor from the ashes, like a dying star. 

This skin is woven no longer from pity, but from iron will; 

From the pieces of the wreckage, I craft a destiny that is still.

Look, life still watches me with that arrogant, hollow gaze, 

Thinking I am still a tree to be felled in its cruel maze.

 It does not know that every time I fall, I merge into the sea, 

And every storm that fails to kill me, only deepens me. 

Now begins the true poem, the true march, the noble pain; 

For I owe no more mercy to those who brought the rain.

This newly born darkness is brighter than any light you've seen; 

This awakening is my proudest start, where the victim used to lean.

 I am no longer the sacrifice,

 I am the story itself.