Hear the Church, Hide the "Sheeple"

I wish I could be a lamb again.
I wish I could walk alone through the forests of pews
under the protection of some assumed extant parent,
but my hoof steps find no echo in these deadened chambers.
Even poised in the late-seaters corner,
I am thrust onto the auction block,
wool primped to hide the bare patches,
voice extended for the bidders viewing.
God, I hold a hoof out to block the gavel,
but, when I retract the swollen lump,
I find myself nipped and dragged
by a sheep who longs to be the wolf
capable of devouring my love for solo saunters.

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