Is there herd immunity to loneliness?
I find myself something of a black sheep,
Not in familial terms,
But societal ones,
I find myself overmuch grazing alone,

These ebony rags of wool grow tiresome,
I hate how they suit me,
Like this I despise my form,
The mealy stench of my visage and attitude,
The feeble and disgusting sound of my bleat,

I have played the misanthropic loner for long enough,
I’d much rather be part of that herd,
Their grass looks far greener,
I don’t want to be me,
Can I instead be one of them?

Comments
  1. Is the grass greener, or another illusion painted with rose colored glass. Excellent work!

  2. Journey says:

    Ahh, but the grass isn’t always greener. Wonderfully expressed!

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