We are creatures so transilient, it's almost absurd.
We'd abandon the safety of our herd, just so we're heard.
Eyes which whilom looketh at perfidy with nature bereft.
Morrow his very lips uttereth deceit so convincingly deft.
Rises he as do waves, at its zenith contentment and pride.
Morrow he's crestfallen, sorrow has his felicity override.
Erstwhile loves he an entity with devotion so ardent.
Morrow, abhorrence hath replaced that which wasn't.
Un moment, he worketh and giveth his all to travail.
Morrow witnesses his lethargy over his tenacity prevail.
His thoughts seemingly silent, speaks he not to a soul around.
Yet screams he with fantastic souls he has himself surround.
We're creatures so transilient, it's almost absurd.
Wonder I always, who we follow? The identity of this shepherd?