The Feudal Sheep - A Poem

As I wait for my turn,
the hour of death beckons,
the butcher’s assistant - the hand of death,
pushes me along,
jostling for space in this deathly hour,
not for the pleasures of heaven,
but for death itself.

The cold winds blow,
extinguishing the fire of life, in the hanging carcasses,
the tender meat full of life,
hardens into death and non-being.

But the soul never dies,
though every cruel death takes away a part of it,
a parting gift to the soul-less creatures who take away.

The line is growing longer,
but I move forward,
to take a giant leap,
I am consuming the flesh of my brothers and sisters,
but the guilt consumes me no less.

I pray that the axe may not be kind to me,
and take away my life at once,
and not prolong my transition,
from this world to ..........

Outside, where whole herds wait,
there is a deathly cacophony of deathly sounds,
but the most deathly of all sounds,
is the sound of silence,
and it grips the ghosts as they reach the butcher.

I stare into the sky,
the happy stars burn my eyes,
the light is too much for my dark life,
Alas! brightness comes to one at death,
perhaps, this is the light at the end of the tunnel,
I stand in the tunnel,
with the the darkness at the end,
the stars make signs to indicate the inevitable,
they seem to move very fast today,
almost scurrying to rearrange themselves,
as each brother and sister dies,
so they be not born an animal,
in their next life,
but, can the attribute-less soul of ours,
carry the heavy message,
after all,
the mighty humans have diminished it to be a figment of theirs,
nevertheless, we carry on.

The Gods are on our side,
but men.......

Epicureans have made us Schopenhauers,
fatalism surrounds us,
as we move along,
into the jaws of death,
but why blame Epicurus,
for these are pleasures of the intellect.

At the death of life,
we stand with our muscles relaxed,
recollecting our lives of death,
events suddenly seem connected by determinism,
life laughs at us cynically,
“You recognized the pattern, too late”,
But, aren’t we determined to do so?
Why are we destined to this destiny?

Hollowness,
a void appears within,
life seems to be a distant memory,
as death waits patiently,
testing the butcher,
these are matters of taste you see,
and the cut must be clean,
as clean as blood, flesh and open wounds.

Why is death saddening us,
after all, we are destined to die,
but that power is best left to Us,
or some higher power,
our parents were separated from us,
are “better” ones among us bred profusely,
aren’t we the subjects of an old philosophy.

The night has moved on,
leaving us in the embarrassing sunlight,
our carcasses rot away,
and the sun dries them,
turning living flesh,
into cold, hard meat,
we were born to die,
and die to be born.