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The Black Sheep

That feeling one cares not of it’s called rage, that pit lost in the depths of ones soul exists whether accepted or not.

The fear of a resentful future is still real beyond the desire to wash it from a broken mind.

Shallow the raven finds her mind, lost she feels setting ever so patiently above vacant doors.

Madness knocks thrice, and when finally answered there is no going back, no taking sanity over the open mind of shadows and broken doubt accepted like a blanket of comfort.

A bleak night is the mind of a black sheep, broken is the flesh of a stagnate raven; yet both strive taking the agony of failure over and over.

Alone the sheep finds herself, lost amid the flock she is bound to; yet non existent in the one blood forces her to.

Black like the deep night her coat so keenly she has to bare, the scorns and bitter resentments of her coils she smiles beyond.

Lost she lingers like the aimless clouds yet bound to the earth she’s stuck in the eternal tar that is life.

Breath fading, what is life she wonders when no one knows who they are, a name its said is just a name; but a soul astray or not is just a soul right?

Contemplations in the right mind are far from the sheep, her ideals are that of insanity blissfully bidding the innocence of youth onto a new life.

The raven too finds no comfort in her desire to bath in the blood of night, her insatiable fascinations with the darkest reaches of the maddened mind.

Both lost in their own rite, yet both seek hope in the bottom of Pandora’s ever giving box.

Chaos is her vice, and rage is the armor thickening around a broken being.