Martyr

I can write no longer!
I can no longer hold a pen, I am not worthy to be called a
writer,
I look at others and wish, yet I cannot write these feelings in one
word,
Who am I to foretell others futures and pasts, I have no authority or
wisdom,
I lost my power when she left me,
I am no longer a man, but a member of the rouges,
They like me live in the dark, the absence of light,
Where they steal I help,
Where they murder I bring to life.

I cannot call myself a writer! I'm an urchin,
Men and women fear my name and no longer wish my help,
Kings no longer seek my counsel, but send their assassins to kill
me,
I doge and weave, uppercut and parry!
Death! Death to me. I'm a rouge and scoundrel,
Nothing to worth of good, yet lives for no evil.
I accept no money but only love,
Even this the fickle plebs will not release.
How can I give my service if I am only scorned and cursed?

My only crime was to love people, and that turned them against
me,
I warned of the apocalypse of money and they laughed,
I tried to help but only blood was spilled&;#8230; my blood.
I tore my heart out and presented it to one sleeping babe,
Maybe this young child will bring hope into the world,
For my time&;#8230; DC's time has gone,
The rouge must die to complete the circle of life,
My life has been over for many a year, yet I could not accept it,
Now I can&;#8230;. And here have my soul as well,
This is free, but your guilt is not.