Wednesday, September 09, 2009

Vulture.

Vultures sit on the 
dashboard 
of promise,
flicking their 
great 
brute of wings.
You rise from shadows of
things,
you empty out your pockets,
and call to the wild,
the wild wilderness
that holds my tears.
Vultures peck at 
corn fields,
and spout calls 
of venom.
I ward myself away, away,
breathe in the cold.

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