The sleeping lambs nestled in the
Hot from the gun.
They slumber through the sketches
Of Spain until finally
The veil of moisture meets plum lipstick
And it’s time to depart;
Time for the slaughterhouse.
They scurry out from their earthy tomb
And venture to what’s beyond the gun’s chamber
And easy womb.
Beady eyes flinch-
I want to be part of the herd!
but that is only possible
In this foreign land
If your dust forms the bricks
Or your skull is being sold
And has its righteous place on the shelf.
Being used as an amusing bookend
Along with serene Buddha.
To accept this binding contract is to understand
That we must question our obsession
To look like children or a withered old hag.
Not many souls wander the labyrinth like mine,
I guess they cannot commit their essence
To the stables and chambers
Where one nibbles on the carcasses
Of forms and blinks
At the silent wide eyed lambs.