A lament for Fabius

I once read a book, it described life as such
Sometimes you lie upon the altar and get cut
other times you are the one that stands above
blade in hand, spilling others blood

It ended with the hero, if you want to call him thus
lying on the altar but,
he held the blade and such
he broke the cycle, cut himself and did it all for love

I cheered for him, for a saviour he was
He saved many people, by sacrificing much.

But I have since come to ask myself,
why do saviours always bleed?
Do we have to put them on a cross,
before we can believe?

Was the nailing really needed,
and dry desert heat a must?
Why do we need altars,
and why do we crave their blood?

Here is what I realised after thinking much,
this ideology of sacrifice, has long haunted us.
Martyred saints and your mum who works too much,
both got the same problem, they kill themselves and call it love.

But leaving isn't loving, love is being there
When you are dead gone, who is left to care?
When you sacrifice yourself, you simply sacrifice too much
You need yourself, I need your self, you need to stay for love