There he stands, tall and shrouded in darkness,
the buzzard that feeds on dead and dying emotions,
surrounded by the rotting stench of emptiness,
and the living dead who are going through the motions
Waiting, watching for the first sign of weakness,
ready to swoop in and suck the life out of your soul,
standing silent and immobile but stone cold heartless,
with fingers hooked to talons and eyes a black hole.
Hooked beak ready to tear into sloughing lifeless feelings,
ripping and tearing with a near surgical precision,
as light begins to ebb from eyes wide open yet unseeing,
he strips off all and leaves just a skeletal rendition.
Of what was once flowing, vibrant and in full bloom,
now lying desolate and dead amidst all that has gone waste,
he returns to his perch, an ominous harbinger of doom,
thriving on the despair and misery that springs in wells of hate.
His kingdom a barren wasteland that stretches forever,
filled with dunes that change shape with the winds of fate,
littered with bleached bones that the sand tramples under,
as death stalks this arid desert in search of it’s next date.
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