I wasn't born to kneel to dead air, I wasn't carved out of cosmic pity The martyr screamed once and you built a kingdom out of cardboard and guilt. Your savior? Ain't nothin’ but a fucking scarecrow, nailed up to rot, still whispering promises to children too scared to scream back. Three hours? It’s a joke for the faint and the follower, lip-stitched sheep chained to the ticking clock like it’s a holy bomb. Waiting for forgiveness from a sky that doesn’t even know your name. The ones who love their own chains because they're scared to stand naked in the wind. You call it sacrifice. I call it a leash made of smoke and Sunday best lies. He didn't die for you. He still hasn't shown up. And you're still on your knees like it mattered, like silence buys salvation. Cross your arms, cross your eyes, cross your wasted time, Lickin’ the boots of a dead man you baptized in your lies. Three hours... Three graves... The wind doesn't listen.
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