A woman who saved The Crown that saved me

Once upon a time,

a long, long time ago,

a Roman Emperor had a mother.

Something was not right as chills grew up her spine,

instead of down.

There was a man. A peculiar poet so to speak. Maybe even the first?

His flesh bit by the sun,

His spirit taunted by serpents.

But in place remained a countenance of unsevered innocence.

He was battered for this.

She thought within herself,

innocent people don’t get crucified

and if they did,

It would not be like this.

Something was not right.

So the woman set off on pilgrimage to discovery.

One of many, a peculiar piece.

The crown for that peculiar king.

That poet she mentioned earlier.

Sinister crimson colored timbers, she thought to believe; possibly a helmet alongside nails to prove it be.

The passion of relics sojourned back with her,

from nations afflicting the countries.

Reaching treasured hands in other centuries,

Til far after she was gone.

The uncanny chronicles of an uncovered crown,

paired on the account of the body could not be found.

Not even the slightest of bits.

Not a tooth or a fossilized rib.

The crown set sail to France where a king sought it worth it.

Assembled a sanctuary just to preserve it.

A crown to prove thee existed,

but the absence of a body, to prove

it was finished.

*

The Crown of Thorns is currently housed in the Notre-Dame Cathedral in Paris.

Founded by Helena mother of Constantine and acquired by King Louis IX of France in 1238, from Constantinople. It was initially housed in the Sainte-Chapelle and later moved to Notre-Dame after the French Revolution.