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…
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