Betrayal flavours all. There is nothing more to be said about the one who walks our darkest alleys, that each of these poems don’t already whisper of.
They’re near-silent, but listen to their dark hues that spread light on every form of this ever-black atrocity.
We try to forget that it lurks: a mist that weakens, takes and breaks parts of us into shards sharp enough to tear away the rest. Broken promises, wrong directions, purple lies, soiled signs and shattered crayon-dreams.
Love is always a victim, you see, she likes attention, so her pain is well known. But there are those that dwell in the intricacies of our minds that also fall prey to the dark. Friendship: has he never been bruised? Or even hope, whose wings tempt the liar, the thief and the mother of doubt? Courage can soon enough be proven a fool, and joy: an idiot.
But the one who bleeds more often than not, is the mirror’s portrait. Think about it: how often have you lied to you?
The Shepherd Lies. Oh yes he does, and we know it. Someone is to bleed, and though we know that too, we forget that we are all soft bleating lambs in masquerade. No one is safe and the axe strikes fast, each time carving away a precious piece that only then we realise we needed. Each poem has a story to tell. How you taste the words is for you to decide. I can only hope that the muse is satisfied with what she writes through my insignificance.
But do tell: Do they speak to you? Can you see it too? Or has the Shepherd tainted your canvas, little lamb?
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