When he was little she stood behind the walls and listened
Unfamiliar with the sound her heart told her to stay invisible

It came with no warning except for the cheer
The bullhorn siren of self-righteous anger
Sounded at his red-caped soul

Sometimes silent but always quick
The crack then mournful wail

Sometimes loud and often slow
The crack then budding sorrow

He never knew she heard the whips
And smelled his blood

He never knew she would follow him
To save it in fine white linens

To show that taking pain was not
The same as taking love
That giving love was not
The same as taking pain

The bleeding would not take his life
Any more than the whips to his soul

The mournful wail would not weaken his resolve
Any more than the anger towards his mind

The budding sorrow would not stop his purpose
Any more than the attempts to kill his spirit

He never knew she would follow him
Wearing white linens soaked in his blood

His red-cape fit her like a glove
Just like her hand in his