Outside two floors down
the cattle go about leaving the town.
Feet thud upon the cold stony floor
programmed from the second they close their door.
Indifferent to the sky
they pass everything by,
each of them single cogs of the spinning machine
down the deathly silent street they stream.
Short sharp looks at the road ahead,
is inspiration dead?
are they leading or are they led.
Is this jealousy or is this empathy
are they trapped or is it me.
By the time the sun has dried up last nights blood
all have gone,
gone to the inner citys abottoir.
Something will be missing when they return
for they are to young to forget and to old to learn.
Not Long Left
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lambs-to-the-slaughter/
