The Victim Of Sheep
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A Man's Traveled Heart
The Victim Of Sheep
In an instant it was gone, all of it. The wolf had sank its teeth into what breath was left. And I, helpless to the scene before me. I watched in horror as the sound of flesh was pierced by pearled teeth, eyes glaring from darkness.
All was taken, all was forsaken. My heart became ill but I could set no motion into existence. For it was not I whom became the victim of the sheep. I was not the one whom'd screamed for freedom but lived in feign. Acting to be a scarecrow of sorrow, left alone in the fields of misery.
For I pulled myself from the withering corn and led myself to the open grains of wheat. And as blood gushed from paling flesh, it spilled in rhythm from the mouth of the wolf. And the teeth held strong, as the sheep squirmed with little resistance. But no panic came from me, for some fall victim to their own annihilation. Following the trail of paralyzed. Listening too closely to their fallacious lips, their cunning tongues.
For who has not felt pain before you and I? Who has not sat idle beneath the rain to hide the tears that fall? Who does not wish to be understood, and who better than the paralyzed, the damned, the shadows that lurk between present and past? For more of us understand agony, than the understanding of happiness.
We have all been dragged through lonely roads, watching has others pass us by. As we fade to a ghostly silhouette of what we once were. Falling short in our own strengths, becoming enthralled in our weakness.
Gradually following suit to the ghosts that bedevil our paths. Placing ourselves in a living purgatory, becoming disdained to even the mere thought of a smile. We become corrosive to our own well-being. Leaving our hearts dead to the living. Wallowing in fears, tears, and the years that led us here.
And upon all this, we are but a feast for the wolves. And I watched as a once dear friend became nothing but a slab of meat to be savored by the throat of a wolf. And I tried, I pleaded for the changing of their heart. But their eyes were glossed in black, hollow, was their chest. Upon seeing their eyes as black as charcoal and their chest beat with no cadence. I saw what shred of soul was left, become engulfed in the sludge of squalor. There was no chance of retribution at my hand. No help could be done, but the help within themselves.
But they became apathetic in thought. They were Bitter in each word, each moment they blinked. And as I watched them suffer at the mouth of the wolf. I could not rescue them. For a wolf does not hunt alone and I know their is no rescuing those that will the suffering of others to existence.
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