Were I a shepard who watched over and loved his sheep dearly,
what would I do if one were snatched by a wolf and ripped apart?

Would I grieve and bury the sheep
Build strong, tall fences around my pastures
And watch the outside fields, wondering if the wolf was still out there
Hoping that it would never come again and starve?
Would I let the memory die
Be thankful for the sheep I had
Take the moral high road,
Realize the good and evil within nature,
And keep my shepards robes dirty with honest labor?

Would I curse the wolf with hatred
Sharpen my hunting knife to a deadly edge
And lace it lovingly with poison,
as and artist would delicately detail his canvas
And wait in bushes hidden by night,patiently watching my
trap crafted with care and skill
Until I heard the beast's cry pierce the night in agony
And saunter out to the writhing beast and drive it's face in the dirt
And I twist my knife into it's neck as it twisted its fangs into my lamb
And watch it die
My robes stained with blood?

Sometimes, I look in the mirror and see two faces that vacillate in the constant light. And I know that both of those faces are true.