Lamb to the Slaughter

a lamb in a turmoil, burning grass and hopes,
in a field of burden, beneath the golden throne,
fluffy feathers, shiny skin,
innocent so pure as sweet, very keen.
shaped and molded, like the fragile claypots,
of the scupltor so invincible in the naked eye.
the one unknown, identity's not,
knowledgable, each even if died.
a lamb had a twin, wild puppy in its right,
had lived so high in the castle of might.
adobe walls, thick bricks, its machine was created,
high fences, limits the world he depended.
spirits connected, but each would never know,
as one they see, they're impossible to grow.
with each other, distances were great,
the hell he are, to the canine, heaven.
lamb turns a sheep, puppy into a wolf,
the heart of the sculptor, a pride for both.
wolf reigns in a stalinized manner,
while the sheep, the world is a slaughter.
the sheep had nothing that the wolf owned,
the jewel of rarity, the prospector's gold.
prideness proportionizes courage,
sheep against predatory sacrilege.


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