The black sheep mourns the loss of the last of his flock.
Christian affirmations ring hollow against the deaf ears of heaven’s favourite fuck ups.
A witch lies eternal in a cask bedecked with crosses.
The black sheep stews with righteous anger as the priest pontificates, procrastinates, postulates, pisses in the mouths of the congregation.
Forgotten strands of bondage straps and tarot cards burn to cinders in the fire of retrospect.
We’re all so very innocent in death, don’t you know?
The lives of the ordinary are coloured with the lividity of battered souls, thrown around corners, pushed into locked boxes of faceless clocks and mould.
The extraordinary are reduced to the mortal coil’s version of stasis, while the organ wails against the bitter chill of envy’s stare.
The gathering doesn’t want to know the true story, only the best lie.
The black sheep is furious, and hurt.
A witch, bearing a name ill-befitting her pagan heart, meets the ground from whence she came.
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Ashamed of the elder black sheep, the flock keeps a healthy distance, until the distance closes as the elder black sheep falls.
The younger nuzzles a still nape, a breathless throat sags against his muzzle.
The black sheep mourns the loss of the last of his kind, no longer the younger.
Now, the only.
The black sheep mourns.