martyr
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The crowds sang her fate
50 philosophers, she converted-
But not one, would share her estate
She stood, keeping her eyes on God
He.He never does.He never gives it to her.the crumpled love note in his pocket,that she wanted nothing more than to recieve,the one he was sure she would never want.It turns to lint,
They speak of heresy and witchcraft
But create gods out of Men
They make me the martyr
And forget that to spill blood is still
a sin.
I am stoned for a word
What if the harmony of saints and sinners /
Broke in moments o’er passing of bread? /
Temporal and shallow, this generation envisage /
Martyrdom, not white but red /
