I Will Sing With The Vultures Poem by Norman F. Santos

Perched upon the laggard headboard
Of the hostility in my brambly bed
With faint burns of my cigarettes
I had transformed into a vulturine—
Man in a bleak duty of scavenging
And this is not another incarnation
For my iron eyes divulged that
I had never been the meandering lion
And I do not only fritter to efface
These inveigling hatful of hope
But I had immolated my forlorn self
And give up my struggling to fit
In a caravansary of jocund fiesta-people
And regurgitate the impetus of solitude
Its ephemeral effect had its adverse
Consequence that is stronger
And that is that loneliness
Is but loneliness
And in this puzzle my sole compartment
Is a mausoleum upon my astray bed
Of pyre atop a mythical hill
Where no soul could hear me sing
An elegy with the vultures
And in cacophony I will
Achieve plenitude in veracity
As the brethren sings their anguish
I will bay in a rueful halloo
And wake the cowering frosted tombs
To scrutinize my discordance
From the orchestra
And, perhaps, in this resolve
I still hold firm in insentience
To my weak trampling constitutions
In an entire different veneer
Perhaps, another incarnation
And snivel only to be saved
From another caravansary of fools.