Vulture

Often he is seen as the harbinger

of fear in the eyes of the people

who see him - a solemn cloud, stalking

the heavens above,

his shadowed eyes always

watching for a next meal

to sate his ravenous hunger.

The vulture is not the spear

of death that tears the heart

from its comforting walls,

nor is he the bullet of time,

turning flesh to bone to dust

to memories on the wind.

Rather, he is the undertaker

tending to the discarded remains

left behind, the one charged

with cleansing the blood from

the wounds, the dirt from flesh, gifting

the bones with peace,

before he ferries the spirit,

freed from its rotting chambers,

to the embrace of the sky,

but his duty is never done, no -

the vulture is a restless surgeon,

his scalpel rusted from the

bloodied messes he alone can clean,

but he never stops, never tires,

this winged child of Hades,

of Anubis, of Azazel -

king of life’s end with his blackened crown -

there is no fear in his eyes.