They’re vultures swooping,
through the inky black sky.
Looking searching for
their next meal.
They screech at each other,
“It’s mine, It’s mine! ”
Never know how much
pain they cause.
Tearing apart their meal alive.
Looking for some meat.
and sometimes even finding the heart.
All the while damaging the brain,
in the process of tearing the meal apart.
And sometimes, when they dig
deep enough, they touch their meal’s soul.
Their meal is finally dead.
Yet sometimes they kill before they eat.
Sharp, piercing talons,
followed by the softer peck of the beaks.
The meal feels helpless,
because, you see,
You are the vultures,
and you’re meal was me.
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