You wear your sins like royal thread,

a crown of thorns upon your head.

Your hands have built, your hands have torn,

they’ve held me close, they’ve left me worn.

The world cries out, it speaks your name,

etched in echoes carved by flame.

Yet in the dark, where no one sees,

you whisper love like dying leaves.

I hope it rains in hell—

not to quench your fire,

...

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