I am first aware of existence
when the hormones enter my blood.
They stretch and push with forces
threatening to envelop all I am
and all I have known.
All I ever will know.
The groans eek through layer upon layer
of engorged flesh,
but still I hear them.
Blinding, deafening visions;
the stench; thud onto rough ground.
Stumble over grass, lost in frost,
our legs inadequate for use
but fit for purpose.
Sounds of horror and sounds of joy,
of pain, profit and priorities,
this is a gift;
our God's grace.
I, like millions aside me,
take a glance at mother
her bonnie face engulfed by wire,
tubes inject and draw liquid
from nature's processing plant,
the grimy hand drag us back
out of sight, out of mind.
They have short memories.
Though the whimpers of fear
we grunt as we grind together
we see, through a gap in the wood,
our brothers line onto the towel one by one.
They enjoy the use of their new muscles,
so tender and delicious.
With a blast they can't hear
and a flash they can't see,
they fall, one by one, onto a red canvas.
I notice a stump beyond the metal.
No - two stumps.
Black turns to blue as my gaze lifts up
and then to pink, dotted with red.
Oh, what beautiful colours!
The stumps rise and fall, up and down,
before they stamp to a halt by my side.
I brave a glance at the sinuous texture,
my heart learning to beat ever quicker,
and notice the same flexile pattern
adorning my brothers' backs.
© Copyright 2017 Mathew Nicolson. All rights reserved.
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