wandering to slaughter

odd sheep, walking on

two legs and their

wool is different colors

looming up ahead is the end

the end of everything

but they question nothing

and move ahead for progress's sake

almost waddling, waiting patiently

to die.

line moves slowly into the fiery depths

blindly accepting a fate not in stone,

but clay still malleable

if only they were wise enough to know of their demise

and fight back with any weapon possible

the line tramps on

and I can't help but dream

of a day where we will protest this insanity,

step out of the line,

and are finally free.