Had I known it was over, I would have cried too.
Allowed my shadows to pour til clear – for it to be known that I am flawed. Like you. Had I known that the delicacy of humanity was unwelcome in the sanctum between, I’dve dipped myself in alabaster – become one of those imperfect goddesses you worship (because their imperfection is contained in myth alone). Had I seen the sword poised so precisely over the fullness of my Truth, I would have never bowed my head to pray for forgiveness, but would have lain supine, and looked my judge in the eye.
Perhaps, my lip would have quivered as the metal gleamed in flight. Is Death truly a baptism to warriors of light?
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