If trust is something easily crashed, what else shall we believe?
If someones else's sayings could easily pull down the wall of belief that had been established by a firm friendship for years, does that mean all the so-called firm friendship is entirely based on the foundation stones of a mere thin crust with phoniness and deceitfulness?
Those with sweet tongues arouse a massive tsunami by tossing just a small straw; however, observing the whole mayhem in a distance so safe so peaceful like nothing to do with them. So innocent, so sweet by the look, whilst vile and corrupt from the inside!
Nevertheless, the tigers that has been sent by those sweet tongues can only be manipulated by, well, those who sent them... so doubtlessly fierce. Are those sweet tongues so trustworthy than those who tell the truth? Is the truth more valueless whilst the lies more priceless?
If unknowns mean not guilty, is knowing an unspeakable sin?
Curse the black sheep! How come you are what you are--so stand out in such a herd of white ones? Wouldn't you just lower your chin and dye your fur like others, living a life of plainness and dullness like others?
You are not Prince Edward, the famous black sheep. Even then, it won't completely guarantee your life of peacefulness and unharmed!
The elegy for black sheep. Poor poor black sheep, though so clever and thoughtful like you should ever be, so incapable of fleeing away from the narrow gaps of beasts' sharp fangs. Dripping no clear tears but something dimly scarlet! It's the color of your fur to blame! So dark and shiny; so noble to be proud of like a royal kings and queens. Unlike the others!
The only thing that you can wish for is never again becoming a black sheep. A plain, common sheep like others in the herd shall you be. Ever again being devour with no regret anyway.
Trust O trust! Thou art the thinnest wall of crust. So sugar-crystal like; crashed by the breeze, shattered by the drizzles. The black sheep, being in the highest center of the white ones, crowned with the ever gorgeous horns, rounded by the frailest crystal frame, can only see itself being torn and swallowed through the frame pieces and its own hint legs hanging from the mouth of sweet tongues' tiger. The eyes turns awful white where it used to be a royally black. And the soft, shiny black fur of its is never again what it was. Dragging like the shredded curtain in the falling house. Sadly dripping with blood of awful smell, hanging, swinging, dangling, dangling, and dangling...