The innocent lamb is most prone to slaughter— her white wool, a beacon for barren souls whose sole capabilities are resigned to detract from a thing so vital, so… other.
Eyes, weary from dissecting and enumerating “truths”—making them both attractive and compelling to a panel of unfamiliar faces, will often take frustrations out on the good intentions of friends–friends, who unwittingly and unabashedly shed light upon the dark underbelly of appearances, exchanging society’s elongated and enraptured dull gaze for a mere moment with the infinite.
We are destined to spend another eternity with a dust that dutifully, though reluctantly, announces the arrival of our oppressor. We are forced to welcome our master (and killer) in every manifestation, be it the giant-king, or the curly-haired barren-ness with a low bow… our eyes diverted, they are free to taste of the fruits we once dared to call ‘ours’, pillage the land we once called ‘home’ and dine in the company of those we once called ‘friends’.
And we are forced to sleep alone in the midst of this late winter wind. We are challenged to’ suck it up’ and, even worse, ‘get over it’.