Working with the dead
was never what I wanted.
A milkmaid to cadavers
Stuck as a servant to my trade
Watching people rot
Finding them nothing more than figurines
I, alone, can feel no pain
I hear no screams of men
The slaughterhouse is just another friendly face
And I am here to grace this wasteland
Like a single star, trying to twinkle
Against a frozen black sky.
Author notes
first pic prompt
A contest entry
- PIF Quickie by x-Black-Butterfly-x.
300 points, ended September 8, 2008, 7 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
-
A chilling poem.
Cyanide, straight up, with a twist...
-
a unique twist and very good description of the job to be done.
Joe
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