Tuesday, December 13, 2016

The Sheep

Everyday I see people who just look dead inside.
I wrote this poem for them and for myself, I hope I don't end up like them. I would rather die. 


Everyday we are herded from place to place.
Never questioning. Why? What? Should I?
Chewing on our grass. Placating the day.
Yet I am no better. Grazing these fields of banality.
I want to be free. I want to be more then this.
They do not see the slaughter house that awaits them.
Why do I? I see their cold dead eyes.
Hope, sapped and seeped.
Struggle as I might. The Shepherds keep us.
Pacified, fat, stupid.
I do not blame them. It has always been this way.
For even the Shepherds answer a call.
All marching to the horn of ephemeral.
So here I am. With my epiphany and no recourse.
All I can do is turn to the cliffs or eat my grass.