Sunday Bloody Sunday

I seen her on a Sunday and I don’t hate myself-

They saw her on a Saturday and they done lost themselves.

The sheep without a shepherd will wear his jersey in the Summer, if his mate ahead does wear his at the dictation of his master.

Man will eat the sheep; essentially canibilise himself, out of fear of being odd one out left alone upon the shelf.

For what them want is bedlam, they know not what they do and when the ascendance is upon them I hope they finally acknowledge the word of truth.

The flowers cannot define themselves amongst the dying trees; potential pollination soon to be lost in translation to the bees.

Will the sun sustain them until come rise dawn maidens sky or will her roaring fire burn a reminder of their failed plight?

From whence this message sent to me? Is this fatigue? Is this insight?

Either way; I pray; the goddess moonlight guides the way through layered voids that are my night.