First comes accusations, and milder forms of abuse

That will make you wonder and question your ways,

Soon persecution, now devoid of whatsoever ruse,

Continue torment and torture until you start to sway.

Their advocates increase, benumbed by raw vitriol -

Beyond any reasons or values; at piecemeal speed,

Erasing doubts, making burrows deep in your soul.

You start to sympathize; and soon your words mimic.

A case of lost identity, striving for validation in mob,

Gradually collects more bystanders under its wings,

A hollow whose features resemble, yet senses robbed

Finds its place amidst pretentious, coward beings.

O righteous rebel! So why's this stance against time?

Bow down. Cede. Or let death absolve thy crimes.

Now I'd like to take

A few more of your moments

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