5746, Slaughter House

The plan was great, a masterpiece;
perfect in two dimensions.
For man, for market, for industry –
best were the intentions.

A blueprint for a work of art,
beautiful and impressive.
A blueprint for the future;
painstakingly progressive.

Sketched and measured, clean and true;
a label on each item.
Blackened lines, crisply drawn –
with enterprise to guide them.

Sixteen by nine by twenty-four,
efficiently designed;
but efficiency bears so many costs –
and torture’s so refined.

From without, a house of bricks,
fit for mom and daughter;
but from within, a musky hell –
a building born for slaughter.

A concrete floor, on paper, white;
in reality cold and soiled.
Click-clack, click-clack, hooves and metal –
a steak that’s soon to spoil.

A roof to keep the weather out,
the squeals and crying in.
A chimney for the farmer’s warmth
and plumes of burning skin.

Hooks and slabs, a scalding vat,
and dampers for the smoke.
A perfect plan in blackened ink –
a life with every stroke.