The Vulture

The Vulture

With black of feathers

And clouds with shades of gray

A circle comes near

The skin lays waste

With hunger so real

Savage, shows no weakness

Hunting, waiting, feeding

Screams of death, from the heavens

As fire burns, your lips run dry

On branches, with open glare

The wings of a majesty

And the grip of a reaper

A fortress of deserts

This tomb, this wasteland

Wrapped for a burial

Walk among the path of bones

Cold as the dirt, dark as the soil

Decaying, rotting, surrounding

Picked clean. An empty corpse

The chase, a sight to behold

Amusement and mind games

Centuries of graves

The wanderer always remains

Bodies pile, trees are bare

In heights, he thrives

A scavenger among the battlefields

Wounded or sick, eyes shut

Only founded to be dust and ash