The Martyr Poem by Chevelle Wernsmann

Atop a pedestal I sit, he's throwing gifts at my feet. A trade for hiding secrets, a frown within my face. I am his world, his martyr, the joy in his embrace. To look into his darkness, is to feel his chilling face. I am his crown his glory, a ribbon he thought he'd won. A prize for many days, but days I had were none. Atop a pedestal I sit, he's building up the walls. To make sure I can't climb upon them and free myself at all. He built himself a fortress, a pedestal upon the top. A place he's kept for me alone, to feel him, I wanna stop.