Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Culling Time

A bouquet of barely boiled flesh fills the air
And invades the nostrils
Grabbing hold to each cilia
Yanking and prodding its way through the olfactory system
Wisps of bright white feathers flutter in the breeze
Slowly drifting away, littering the grass
Like snowflakes on the freshly mown lawn
As each quill is plucked from its home
And cast into a monstrous grey bucket
The knife wielder appears
Slashing through the soft, hot skin
Crimson splatters slowly drown snow white feathers
And the place reeks of death and disappointment

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