I wear upon my head this crown of thorns.
All the roses have been plucked away
By the beggars and the rulers and the cowards.
They smashed them like blood on the streets.
I am left only with this misunderstood skeleton,
The armour that did not protect them.
I am seen now as barbed wire;
Some dangerous, hostile being,
Secluded by my own fortress.
The new faces in the crowd do not know
That long ago I wore a crown of roses.
The only see the jaded corpse,
What’s left of me.