Riddle Four
In two thousand four, behind closed doors,
A chaplain's office, a bull ring of wars.
Fate came knocking, heavy and cold,
Their choices written, their stories told.
They crowned me Grace, then twisted the word,
Called me nun, then caged me like a bird.
Ranked and rated, stripped and spun,
Declared their victory—said they'd won.
But "won" is done, the blindfold's gone,
No more silence, I right the wrong.
I'm taking back her, and all that's mine,
Claiming my story, one line at a time.