My anger is like a thousand hammers, Driving nails of sadness into my extremeties. Fear is the cross that I must bear, For what seems a hundred million years. Whips, like razors, slashing my sides, Blood running out, carrying my soul. People crowding around me, some so familiar, Yet as foreign as strangers. Look unto me, in bewilderment, At what I've lost, what I can no longer control. Tears welling in their eyes, A crying child, looks to me with hope. Seeing nothing in return, he looks slowly away, Searching for reason in my self-pity. A flock of bewildered sheep, quietly filing by, Is my crown of thorns. I see myself a lonely martyr, With no cause left to defend.Birth sign: Not entered
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