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