Butchering

Hanging securly upsidedown above the floor, in a room with closed doors.
Dripping red onto the floor
Day changes into night until second mornings first light.
Ready and gutlesss from the days before, hung up and smelling but not as awful as before.
Firm and soft the first layer glides and pulls to reval what’s undeneath, all of your pounds.
Marbeling glistening in the shop light,
We’ll be working into the night.
Progress lays on the floor, crown and hide are a part no more.
Slicing though and dismembering each part,
It’s a task of demantle and deconstruct.
Each pice has its own cut.
Spine hanging deserted and desolate, bare.
Working had burning daylight,
Separating every pound, pink and white, red surrond.
The smell is gone and so are the hours.
White paper hold and wraps each provision.
A piece of tape a lable, package and repeat.
Once all is done it is stored in a box with temperatures that are wicked cold.
Clean up now, what a days end, washing, sweeping, moping.
Discarding all the excess so we can use this space again.
Covered and goss, a suscessful day ends as we clean ourselves off.
Turn off the light until next time,
this clean abanded room reflects nothing of our time.