The Crown Of Thorns Were His By Right

My friend paints my doorstep red.

His face of triumph scarred.

His name wasn't his, they said

And now, they aim to take his breath.

A beautiful flower from a rotten seed.

Hands are itching to leap.

Old Friend, must you bleed

Alone? Why? I do not see.

Tousled hair, sweet smile

Open mind, sharp eyes

A sensitive soul with a beautiful mind,

Nailed by his family, as was his rights.

You reside right beside my atriums,

Dear boy, don't misjudge me.

Keep the bandages on,

Every drop that you have shed stings me.

Heal. heal now, old friend.

You are being cared for by loving arms.

You have fought a small great war,

Now rest, before you face the world.

Shame? shame you shall not have

Have you done any wrong?

You wished to live on your own terms

And that is Freedom, I recall.