Surrounded by the humble masses,
As gentle as the dying man's last breath,
She stands consumed by soot and ashes...
The ruins of hope; the triumph of death.
He was not the savior she thought him to be.
He was nothing more than the future of the past.
Only a matter of time before she would see
His masquerade shattered, his true face at last.
And there on the hill, the faithful, they waited.
The end come and gone, leaving nothing but time.
Away she did wander, no longer elated.
Compassion her virtue.
Impatience her crime.
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