Expectations of a black sheep. Blinded flock.
The door that welcomes every winter. Vomited.
Corners of the mouth that used to scream.

Flooded but not for freedom. Eyes wide open.
Sleep. Under a blanket of disgust. Demon.
The only soul aware. You look at the ground.

And feeling the urge; to hurt their faces.
Every being that disappoints me. Feeling.
And feeling the urge; I refuse to believe.
They wear a beautiful dark garment. Demon.

Thread made up of lies. Destroyed. Words.

Lying men and the surroundings. I refuse.
We scream, swallowed. Falsehood on purpose.
The flock. It's a demon and it's walking.
At least that's the shepherd they've chosen.

Oh, demon. The leaves swayed quietly.
Until they were visited by the hand of fire.
Between the fingers; the last vital drops.

Everything are spilled. This green is no more.
Life. The world flows from the wounds on earth.
Extinction. Lost. Comfort in disinterest.

Last breath. Rubbish at the bottom of the sea.
Despised ecosystem, trampled. Dead surface.
Torn tree stability. Oh, demon. The flock.

It's a demon. Alive, awake. And it's walking.
At least that's the shepherd they've chosen.

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