Talons Poem by Luke Navarro

Talons resting on the shoulders of the welcome, talons digging, pulling, tattooing the flesh of the willing, talons kept sharp by the bones of the weak, talons strengthened by the calcium of the freshly deceased.
These talons belong to birds of different feather, birds of the storm, birds of fair weather.
They circle above opportunity waiting for the collapse of others.
They are often mistook for angels by the shadows they cast.
These birds migrate as far from yesterday as their wings will take them past.
Sometimes their talons get buried so deep they start growing outward like horns, outward from the stomachs of their prey, outward from the throats of their children.
The talons they speak through using words like the fingers of a marionette have been sharpened to a fine point.
Sharpened for surgical like incisions.
Laced with promise these talons leave you feeling no pain on the surface.
It's just a scratch you say as you grow old waiting for the scab to fall from your skin...