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