The slaughterhouse poses motionlessly white and erect <br />Where her weary hands cleaned the mirrors there <br />as they shamelessly did reflect, <br />The woefulness, yet the blessedness of her weekly chore <br />Knowing that dust, grime, and wrinkles would open a door. Even now, the old log cabin boldly spills out its daily news. <br />Forgiving and forgetting, she rendered it its dues; <br />While its presses rolled, she arose early to enter <br />its master's household, <br />Her sleep-deprived spirit would free yet another soul. In this proud, new era, specklings of those westside, <br />majestic altars yet stand, <br />But through enlightened, renewed eyes are no longer viewed as grand. <br />On their sweat-stained altars, fewer sacrificial lambs are laid; <br />Ironically, from their offerings were our brighter futures made.<br /><br />A.J. Bland-Fears<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-bleating-of-the-lambs/
