The Martyr

The martyr lays her head upon the block

And sniffs back an iron tear.

Her people watch in silent awe,

Unable to comprehend

Her sacrifice.

The invisible axeman raises the blunt blade

Into thin air—

The martyr cries out to her people—

And it falls.

The people weep as the thing rolls,

But quietly and into their hands.

They praise her softly

In their hearts and to each other.

“Praise louder, ingrates!”

Shouts the head in the basket,

“My blood is on your hands now,

This was all for you!”

And the people die of shame.