The Martyr Comments

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.
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