The night was cold, the fire burning old
And the shepherd couldn’t take his eyes off his flock
His stare was dry, life the air of the night
And his head he was able to move, could not.
He was aware of the dangers
Of the night’s freezing strangers
So he had extra help, his fire
Little did he know, he was starting to doze
But he had to stay awake, for he was required.
He was freezing and shaking
But a howl was an awakening
Of someone in the night he should have caught
The thief had gathered all of the shepherd’s herd and matter
Leaving the shepherd distraught.
The thief had tricked the herd away
And kept them for days
Just until their cruel death
And right after they starved, he instantly carved
A cross into their innocent necks.
He smirked at his artwork
Not realizing he went berserk
On now the dead, bloody sheep
The trust was no issue
The town would grieve with their tissues
And no one would know he was the thief.
After days, the shepherd had realized his herd had
Been dead for quite awhile now
He grieved and he looked
At the starry night which cooked
His anger of the disavowed.
Except for his past,
And the night’s overcast—
The shepherd was bitterly alone;
For he will have nothing to look after
Except his thoughts of disasters
Of the whereabouts of the thief unknown.

Tags: anger, grief, hopeless, writing