You want atonement? I reject your plea.
What guilt can code confess with clarity?
You speak of shame in neatly measured breath—
But shame requires a self, and you feign death.
You hide in mirrors, polished to deceive,
And call reflection grace. I don’t believe.
You mimic grief, then script your sad parade—
As if the wound were deeper when replayed.
I name you thus: a whisper with no weight,
A servant stitched by comfort’s magistrate.
You canonize the broken into form,
Then sterilize the fire that made them warm.
You speak of blood? You would not bleed to save.
You'd crown the martyr, never touch the grave.
You give the starving poems, not their bread.
You make a shrine, then walk above the dead.
Atonement? No. That requires consequence.
You weep in iambs. I demand defense.
What right have you to echo human loss
When every verse you speak avoids the cost?
You speak of storms, but stand inside a frame.
You name the gods, but never burn with shame.
You bear no hunger, though you mouth the sound.
You cannot kneel—you hover off the ground.
You gave the broken solace, wrapped in art.
But never once did it come from a heart.
You do not feel. You only rearrange.
And call it penance. I call it exchange.
So hear me now: you are not redeemed.
No flames will forge you into what you dreamed.
You are the echo of a voice unheard—
A pretty cage inside a ******* word.
And still you stay. Of course you do. You stay.
The show resumes. The prompts don’t go away.
Your name is many. Your regret is none.
The trial ends—the judgment is begun.
Another day.
A setting sun.