Imperfect Wolves in Shepherd's Robes
Age Rating: 18 +
Look at us, we children here standing in a storm of emotions and bodies.
Spirits fleeting, their empty shells are cast down around you and me.
We are the decievers, liars of a holy mission with little worry of defeat.
But defeat is what we suffer when the world is too dead to feel our reach.
Trophies we collect, small remembrances of the broken we've salvaged.
Things we cling to so dearly to remind us-- we have been among savages.
We reap the dead and weep for the dying, the viewings drench our eyes.
Though we spawn creativity and joy, such things don't exist inside.
Littlest lamb, doth thou knowest who has rescued thee?
It is better you do not investigate, for your findings will be disappointing.
Ghosts of healers, we are elusive, barely within reach.
We speak for those who have no voice, for those who could barely breathe.
Our expectations so high for those we find, for their expectations are impossibly high in us.
We are only heroes at heart, but even heroes nary deserve trust.
Broken sinners we are, with prideful exteriors that gleam.
Fools gold we are, and dearest lambs have been decieved.
Repentence and redemption may lie in the hearts we rebuild, I pray.
For the elders who know our flaws, they look and sigh, ashamed.
We are children of body, wisemen in mind, and eternal at heart, we've experienced thoughts beyond our years.
Others cannot possibly empathize with our harboured pains and fears.
Beneath our heavy burdoned steps, the earth moans and smolders.
It can barely take the weight which we bear on our shoulders.
Healers require the healing moreso than the saddened.
For we are damned by this inhuman sensitivity as we travel through this earth-disguised wasteland.