The perspective of the short-lived life of a battery hen:
The dull, grey enclosure surrounds me night and day.
All I ever want to do is fly: spread my wings and merge with nature,
Become apart of life.
I necessitate leaving this place, where my every thought is tinged with depression,
Each thought brushed with pain.
I want to eat real food,
Chew the green grass that swarms our Free Range Friend’s feet each day,
As opposed to this nutritious dirt that they place before us.
I need to feel the earth beneath my feet,
The true soil,
Not the artificial mesh that snaps my bones.
This space I am confined to,
Is but one single square in size,
It sears my mind with eternal guilt that I should feel willing,
To resort to cannibalism.
What would my ancestors say if they’d known of my fate?
Would they detest me,
Knowing the longing that filled me each time I starved, and had considered,
That I could kill another?
The cracking of bones against the wrought mesh is like the lashing of a wicked whip;
Its sound consumes my ears,
I am unable to escape.
The cage opposite me has met their fate within the electrified tub,
The one that crackles and spits,
That fills the room with a tangible static,
Laced with undiluted death.
The electrified waves are crashing against the shore,
And I can see the tide coming,
And I can feel it lapping against my ankles,
Until soon it’s snaking its talons across my neck,
Ripping away at my nerves,
Until its strength has overpowered me,
And incapacitated my weak,