It's such a routine thing,
The pierce of a blunt needle,
The quiver of a cold, thick liquid flooding my veins,
The ache of a prophylactic remedy.
But there is something so different about this time:
The callused hands that yank at my fur?
The cigar-tinged breath of the man holding me down with sharp elbows?
The way I can't discern any shade of gray or black,
Only sheer, blinding white,
From the linoleum floor,
To the hospital ceiling?
Or is it?
The distinct tingle of formaldehyde,
In my twitching nose?
The carcasses stowed away in the next room?
Shall I decide now to lament the fact,
That I never did have a kind hand ruffle through my patchy fur?
That I never was held without being thrown?
That I never was touched without being kicked?
Or shall I remain at peace in these blessed final moments,
Close my weary eyes,
And let spin on that dreaded cycle:
But as the light fades away to a muddled glare,
I can't help but realize that,
There is something so tranquil about death...
How the pain all slips away.
There is something so abrupt about it as well,
As if I were falling headfirst into a deep, deep...