The Sheep

Where are we going.

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.

Author's Note

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.

Reviews

[kelseyalexrose]

My greatest fear wound it's way into your fingertips. Wow. Fantastic!

[mattavelli]

Hi Samuel, I really enjoyed this. I hate being processed. It makes me anxious.

[Perkele.7885]

THEREIN BUT, FOR THE GRACE OF GO I! You and I were not born animals of the field, We were born in His image and given that gift that other species do not have, choice. Those animals are born, they eat to live, and then they are killed for a dinner or naturally.