You call me a martyr.
You who started the fire,
Built the cross,
Swung the axe.
Tell me, did the splattering of my blood dirty your soul?
Is that the reason odes have been written,
Tears have been shed,
And voices in anger use me as an example of all the wrongs of society?
Does making me less by making me more ease your battered conscience?
By teaching me to the minions, plebeians, simple-minded societies,
I become a legend, a history lesson.
You have taken away my humanity with your myths.
Don't you realize I'm human!
You saw my breath in the cold of winter,
Looked into my eyes and saw my terror as I stood before you.
You saw my tears and the defeat when you judged me,
And saw my blood pool at your feet.
Now what gives you the right to pick me apart,
Like a buzzard pecking away at a rotten carcass?
Haven't you hurt me enough?
How much damage must you do before I am no longer a threat?
The damage can never be undone,
The lies you spread have become the truth,
And I have disappeared within the saintly vision you have constructed.