Some poetry

put to sleep,
destined for slaughter

(XvX)

The host of fowl shared
a common dream of reincarnation,
and hastened their feathered bodies
across the conveyor belt.

The factory operator wipes
the sickly sweat off his brow.

A vegetarian himself,
he shakes his head in disgust,
and utters a buddhist scripture
under his cotton face mask.

Their conciousness melted,
somewhere further down the line,
where they were put to sleep,
by a sterile hypodermic needle.

The feathers were unplucked
to reveal a gross white fat.
Their shivering bare flesh hung in mid-air,
commanding the stark shadows on the floor.

That they revered in newfound freedom,
of the stinking bird coop
where they once lived.

As the steamer sang and hissed in triumph,
the metal grimace yawned wide open,
to reveal an impending darkness.

(XvX)

Surely this is good enough reason,
good enough respect for a living being,
to give prayer for the sanctity of life,
and thanks to the food.

Amen.


The first time in a long while, guilty feelings have crept in while eating food.
I ate Chicken Cutlet at a Western Food hawker stall that does a fair bit of evangelism.

(XvX)