Whispers of Vengeance

In velvet dusk where silence weeps, A shadow stirs from ancient sleeps. Not born of wrath, but slow, refined— A justice carved from wounded mind. No blade was drawn in hasty flare, But whispers twined through midnight air. Each step composed, a silent dance, A ghost within the guise of chance. He sowed no storms with reckless hand, But waited like the shifting sand. For time, that ever-patient flame, Would carve the stone and write the name. She smiled where once she wept in chains, Each tear reborn as silent gains. No scream, no fire, no breaking cry— Just calm beneath a colder sky. For vengeance wears no crimson cloak, But moves in silence, never spoke. It gathers grace from pain endured, And strikes when memory is cured. So let them think the past has died, That mercy bloomed where rage once cried. But know, the rose conceals the thorn And justice waits, reborn, reborn.