A Martyr No One Named
He was laughter once
A spark in the crowd,
A stag who danced with storms
And made the broken feel proud.
Thirteen years under vows and roof,
Not of joy, but of silent proof
That love can die without a sound,
While duty still walks around.
Two fawns he cradled with calloused hands,
Though their hearts were taught not to understand.
His voice, once warm, turned faint and strange,
Through whispered truths the viper changed.
He is with a viper clothed in grace,
Raised by scripture, cloaked in faith.
We saw a lamb, gentle, wise
But the viper wore sheep’s skin over wolfish eyes.
Preached of God but prayed to gain,
Saw love as leverage, mercy as chain.
The viper measured worth in what she earned,
And only gave when it returned.
The stag gave her trust, a home, his youth
She gave him silence dressed as truth.
He bent, not broke, though worn and torn,
A saint in shadows, quietly mourned.
Through sleepless nights and soured years,
He smiled through his growing fears.
His joy grew dim, his laughter rare,
But still, he stayed, he chose to care.
Not for her, who drained his soul,
But for the fawns, his fractured goal.
To give them more than he received,
Though love, through her, they were taught to fear.
In the end, he gave it all
His time, his light, his final call.
A sacrifice not made in flame,
But fading slow beneath her name.
And when he fell, few truly knew
What he had borne, what he’d walked through.
A life unpraised, a heart dismissed
A stag we lost, a life we missed.
So mourn him not in silent stone
But in the way he died alone.
A martyr not of faith or war,
But of a home that cost him his soul.
—The Wounded Fighter