The Martyr

His leathery skin was burnt under the blaze of angry Kings.

The fires licked his flesh to a lonely midnight,

but his eyes had the stain of a thousand suns.

O, how their hearts were never found.

As their God spoke prayers,

swords ripped through the air and bit off his horns.

Winter crimson painted their dishes.

Seconds ran the other way.

Always, everything turned up lost...

So their only hope was to abandon it.

Whereas ghosts have a way to trap you.

No one would dare keep him.

His halo was a crown of candor.

Which was ripped by gentle hands

and torn by melancholy.

His sorrow fed upon him.

His heart poured into the earth.

Quenching the thirst of death...

Letting them be Kings in their sleep.