Am I A Sacrificial Lamb?
They glare with eyes like frozen steel,
Piercing, yet blind to what is real.
They see the frame, not the flame,
And brand me with a borrowed name.
Their hearts beat cold, devoid of grace,
Slander drips from lips that never face
The truth I carry, bold and bare—
A golden heart they wouldn’t dare.
They speak in tongues of defamation,
Crafting myths from accusation.
As if I’m carved for crucifixion,
A symbol of their own affliction.
But I do not break—I crystallize.
I rise beneath their shallow lies.
Resilience is my quiet hymn,
A light that does not beg to dim.
So I ask you now, with open hand,
Do you think I’m a sacrificial lamb?
Or am I the storm they failed to tame—
The soul they tried, but could not name?
I am cold-forged, born of frost and flame,
A heart of gold beneath the blame.
Not prey, not pawn, not silent ghost—
But the truth they fear to face the most.
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