Disposable Lives – by Jordan Fox
Enter a dungeon, lined with cages and stink–
Prisoners await their number to be called,
These numbers replacing names and dignity.
Matts of hair and bandages line the corner sink.
If birth means promise, then theirs is forestalled.
Their eyes no longer appeal for your pity.
These sounds now defining their universe:
Yelps, and whimpers, and pale, simple breaths.
Food plates abandoned, as are thoughts of hope,
Their birth no promise, instead struck by curse.
They seem to know they’re awaiting their deaths,
Their acceptance their only means to cope.
Their final walk is to a box which kills,
Their parents still freezing in puppy mills–
An evil the lowest of men contrives–
Now they’re just disposable lives.
Once they were thought so cherished a treasure;
Once they were bought, given assurances of love.
Once they were forced to fight in a Hellhole;
Once they were worth more than sick pleasure.
Once they were thought of as gifts from above;
Once they were considered possessing a soul.
Now in this dungeon, a chamber is set;
Now in their cells they witness each drag
Of one of their cellmates into the next room.
Here, in this chamber, they defecate and wet
Before piled corpses are tossed in a bag
Because no one came dispelling their doom.
Their final walk is to a box that kills,
Air withdrawn, but not before each shrills
Their own dirge like sounds of scraping knives,
All bred to be disposable lives.
©2012 Jordan Fox