The severed head of Charlotte, freshly shorn,
Still burned with crimson heat beneath the slap,
A sudden spark to close the violent gap
Between the iron blade and quiet morn.
The sneering rogue who struck the cooling cheek
Awoke a silent fire, fierce and bleak,
Before the fading mind could die reborn.
Across the scaffold, blood and marble blend,
As dark directives urge the final leap,
Where sovereign voices guide the soul to sleep,
And draw the weary martyr to her end.
This hidden master calls from shadowed halls,
Where every whisper breaks as darkness falls,
And bids the broken spirit to descend.
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