Put To The Blade


Upon the butcher’s table,
creatures lay to rest.
There is a stench in the air.
Metallic, bitter, wafting,
the smell of lives taken too soon.
I cannot help but ponder
did the ox whose tongue now lays before me
know his last bellow was to be his last?
His last taste of the cud
to be his last?
And did the sheep’s eyes
grotesquely piled up in bags behind the counter,
truly appreciate their last glances of freedom?
Of their flock?
Most hereby flesh is unidentifiable,
lonely and cold
still seeping with life-giving blood
without a life to be had.
Humans take their picking,
their tongues imagining,
their eyes wide and greedy.
I cannot help but ponder
if it was their child
drawn and quartered
would they still feel so hungry?

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