“The Wolf Who Cried Sheep”

Spilling words upon a page

I bleed in black ink

For those who wish to read

For all who’ve come to see

The inside of me

Flayed and displayed

Burned down to the core

Without substance or form

This skeleton hand still scrolls

Moving to and fro

Left to right

A muscle memory

A cognitive dissonance

The distance between you and I

The sheep in wolf’s clothing

And the wolf who cried sheep

Buried deep beneath

But not nearly deep enough

For I can still see

The comedy and tragedy

Are all that now remains

Of what was you and me

—David Allen

3 thoughts on ““The Wolf Who Cried Sheep”

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