It’s foggy today,
Murky, misty, grey.
A day to die.
As the trucks line up at the death factory
Noses poke between the slats
Nostrils flare as they take in the smells of blood and fear
Wafting from behind those walls.
White eyes protrude, heads tilt to see what’s to come.
Some will have to wait a while
Before they feel the gun.
Hundreds of animals crammed into trucks,
In the queue for slaughter,
Time for some to really FEEL that terror,
As it builds and builds to an unbearable intensity,
Waiting…knowing…their life soon to be stolen…
(Though, as yet, unaware of the ëhowí.)
…by the blood-spattered thieves inside the house of pain.
Head upon head soon to possess an unsealable hole,
Brain upon brain to be damaged beyond repair,
Smashing that bone,
A demon, wielding a captive bolt,
Too late then for reprieve.
Grabbed by the hind legged, wrenched upside down,
Knife stuck in, rammed down across open throat
Some will struggle,
Some won’t,
Some will feel every slice,
Some won’t.
Some know every cut
Some don’t,
Some feel the saw, grinding at their legs
Some don’t.
No, the hole in the head won’t keep them ALL still!
But then, they will all die…in time.
Quite pessimistic.
Dark but powerful…
Thank you.
Very, very sad. – 
Very good poem though. – 
Bloody Hell!