I pity the vultures in the sky,
But perhaps I should first explain why?
They circle up there for the duration of the day,
Each starving bird awaiting the same dying prey.
These creatures know not how to hunt,
And if I may be ever so blunt,
But they remind me of you.
Predatory of the dead as I stare with my eyes of blue,
Though this comparison may seem unfair.
Please recall what dragged you here?
Do you even know the day and its name?
How about when you first bathed in this sinful shame?
I know now that my words have no use,
Much like my unused noose.
I shaln't let you borrow it.
It is mine.
I would truly be lying if I attempted to deny,
But I'm slightly envious of those lacklustre birds in the sky.
Because though they circle and wait for fallen prey,
They might get to be there on your fateful day.
I will absent,
As ravens and crows are solemn present.
That being said,
We are the same when we are dead.
I'll take my anger to the grave,
For it is the only gift which you gave.
So this shouldn't come as a surprise,
But I'll state it nonetheless.
May the crows eat your eyes,
And your blasted loneliness.
YOU ARE READING
Eighteen Seconds Until Sunrise |||POETRY|||
PoetryThis is all I have... Simple words that cannot begin to describe with any of these constructed syllables the resonating depth of such complexities... I'll try, though.
