To the Abattoir - 2012/10/20

Behold the cup with many holes
Whose will is not to be filled
Spy the disappointment in eyes
Of he who is destined to spill

Weep doth he amongst the remains
Of dreams known to have perished
In pursuing this fleeting homage
He now taints all once cherished

So what be a man but a flimsy bag
Of bones which squeak for a time
Chasing cheap facades for harmony
Not finding either rhythm or rhyme

Call and warn him if so compelled
But he is a mechanism sans machine
While his violence seems senseless
He himself is certainly not mean

For he dreams the dream he prefers
Not caring to see below its veneer
As he is not the rancher who herds
Rather just another stubborn steer

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