Ferryman, The

I wrote this while fed up at work yesterday.

Every morning I lead the lambs to the slaughter. 
Their blood shot eyes and stale coffee breath are my confirmation.

At night they return:
Sheared
Disheveled
Drained
Reeking of wasted time.

I am their ferryman.

Author's Note

I'm new to this whole writing thing and do value all opinions. even if you hate it. let me know, and let me know why...
thanks

Reviews

[Greg Skura]

Well done! I enjoyed your little poem immensely! Someone has to move the sheep, lord knows they can't move themselves!