We are Pigs

Are we just products here;
never to associate with those
who take us to market, make us look
our best in the face of the world
only to sell us at a profit?

Like pigs in a farm that they feed
to reach all dimensions that others desire
yet never to be named lest attachment grow
enough that we could be loved as we are.

Objectified. Commodified.
Pacified with promises of comfort
that never came and never comes
and will not ever arrive.

Led to the slaugher, butchered
along with the children of our minds,
never paid in kind for labours given
beyond the grilles of our cages.

Are we not people here anymore?
Can't we be more than a headcount
that fills the spaces between these walls?
Isn't there more to this than the money
they make from trading us in the ether?

We are less than pets.