The Kid

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
"Others too young, unaware of the truth:
Blissfully ignorant-- that is the youth."
We've to write a speech on Animal Testing for school and, though I've a lot to say on the topic, I can't quite seem to get my thoughts down. Changing tactics, I turned to my good ol' friend Poetry and came up with this. The rhythm's a bit off in places and whatnot, but it says what I want it to, so I'll leave it as it is. It's just my thoughts and not everyone agrees, but I respect everyone's decisions. Thank you for reading :)

Submitted: January 10, 2015

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Submitted: January 10, 2015

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Fields of green and children playing,

The little kid not yet fit for slaying.

Its mother taken and stowed away;

Locked in a crate with no room to play.

It cried and it wailed, bleating for days;

But its loss went unheard; they continued to graze.

Others too young, unware of the truth;

Blissfully ignorant-- that is the youth.

 

 

Alone by the days, they're together at night:

Together in sleep, but never in sight.

It can't understand why its cries go unheard:

Its mother is gone, but its pain is endured.

 

 

The seasons pass by and time does fade;

For the ones that are gone, more have been made.

The little kid older, now fully-grown,

Watches the crate with a kid of its own.

They bound and they play, side-by-side when asleep;

Together for now, some memories to keep--

But others unwanted, though won't go away,

Like the cries of its child when taken that day.

 

 

No sound in the crate, not even a bleat;

Each stature is slumped in obvious defeat.

They go through the cycle with noise in the air:

The cries and the wails-- but not enough care.

 

 

Its purpose now done, its life is complete;

But that flesh being butchered was once more than just meat.


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