A hammer strikes in the distance, dying embers fade into the ground. The sycophants eyes fill with rage for the show it, they shout what I've known.
What I've accepted. I hate myself for the pretenders, more than I loathe the falsification of who we've become.
Fate has been replaced by a man who shoves me into a path. If only it were one.
The spittle from their screams, its the only liquid I've had and the last I'll see.
They just don't see enough of sympathy.
One of them breaks through. The sun falls from above, overbearing, splitting clouds—I hit cobblestone without the strength to brace.
I rather they feel nothing.
Just what did they see?
I'd only offered them a glance at what we could be.
Was I so wrong?
I'm dragged to my knees in front of the ravenous mob who take turns passionately shouting as if their reason why I should be the one to die would sate their bloodlust.
I resist my urge to argue, it nearly breaks me. They've already assigned guilt and brought me to my knees.
Amongst clenched hands and foul words I see the wrinkle between her eyebrows, showing purpose as did all her visits.
The imprint of her touch, the memory of her voice still fresh. Just a few seconds more.
Just a moment more and I'll be able to live--act what she preached.
And this won't become another day