You, the shepherd, guiding with gentle hand,
You, the abattoir, where destinies are planned.
You, the quiet, serene in your might,
You, the roaring sea, in the still of the night.
And I, your dulcet lamb, innocent and meek,
Trusting in your guidance, so pure and yet so bleak.
Unaware, I followed, to the slaughter's door,
Where you would claim all, leaving nothing more.
My heart, my soul, the essence of my being,
Strung upon your thread, like a puppet on a stage,
Only to be severed, in love's bitter cage.
As I lay, upon the cold, silent floor, I found solace in knowing, I was no more. For in that cold sweet moment, in the stillness profound, I embraced my fate, upon holy ground.
Watching the crimson from my flesh and bones bathe the floor-like soil welcoming rain after a year of thirst. And now, as my blood mingles with the earth, each drop a prayer of life, in death's quiet mirth.
