Vultures circle on the horizon
They land on nearby trees and wait
They make no sound at all
Fluff their wings in anticipation
And their eyes are fixed and shiny
So evil bright and shiny

Their number grows each passing hour
And their silence terrifies much more
Than the howling wind that echoes
From the distant rocky canyons
And roils the low hung clouds above
And stirs the low slung clouds

The broken trees who’s fruit is vultures
Bear no leaves and don’t remember
Ever having such a coat or
Sap that rose up in the springtime
To foretell a new beginning
There ware no new beginnings

Their only memory is drought
And brittle stands against the wind
That snapped off branches, limbs and buds
And left but bleached out skeletons
To mark the passing of the years
         The passing of so many years

Through the wounded vegetation
Run barely visible tracks or trails
That seem to start from far away
And end up on the other side of it
With lots of detours along the way
Detours all along the way

There is no safety anywhere
In this barren desert place
Where nothing grows but spiny things
Not tall enough to create shadows
In the unforgiving burning sun
The unrelenting sun

A wounded bunny, colored like the sand
Sits very still, afraid to move
Survivor of a former battle
It has almost no strength left
And not even that much hope
Used up every bit of hope

If only there were den or burrow
If there were brambles with their thorns
They might provide a hiding place
A chance to live another day
To do the things that bunnies do
And live the way that bunnies live

Waiting for a miracle or magic wand
In a place where those do not exist
The bunny, frozen in the hope
The birds will find some other prey
And may not see him crouching there
Prays for escape by crouching there

Suddenly the sky explodes
With beating wings and raucous cries
The thunder of a hunter’s gun
Has launched the birds in frantic flight
And one lies dead upon the sand
So newly dead upon the sand

While the hunter pokes and eyes his prize
If such a bird can be a prize
The little bunny bides his time
Until it’s safe to hop away
So he can live another day
And plan to live another day
ljm

'Yes life is a hell
But don't worry my dear
I am here to hear u 'said HP

' Thanks but I don't want to pour out everything as this may disturb someone's positivity ' I replied

' Do you think so ? ' HP asked

' Mm ... But I am wrong I think because more than repost I got comments which tells that we are here for you ' I murmured.

' so I think , now you  got my point !' Said HP with a smile

' ya HP I got u !! ' replied with a heartly smile..

I’d trace your spine until you felt the love from my fingertips burn hotter than the pain shrieking in your bones.

I’d fiddle with your lamp until it was the perfect shade of indigo.
I’d keep watch for you in the dark and shield you in the blinding light.
I’d run you baths that made you feel pure.

you’d never sleep alone,
unless you wanted to.
even then,
I’d be sitting against your door
with a glass of tea,
fruit,
and your pills.

I’d write you pathetic sonnets.
I’d sing you off-key songs.
I’d read you poetry that brought us both to tears.
I’d draw you stupid doodles and try to make you laugh.

you’d never be alone
on the miserable floor.
those *******,
with all their relentless,
maddening buzz
wouldn’t be heard over me.
louder,
or more demanding.

I’d feed you Nutella: my very last spoonful.
I’d clean your room as often as you wanted, or never.
I’d take you to bookshops and cafés and nowhere at all.
I’d sit with you and play with your piercings.

you wouldn’t be alone,
staring awake at dawn.
the dark,
it wouldn’t be spent so restlessly.

I wouldn’t quieten my desire.
no.
not this time.

I’d say I’m sorry when I laughed so hard I spit.

I’d love you when you couldn’t love yourself.
I’d care for you when all you saw was waste.
I’d carry you wherever we went and tell everyone you’re mine.

A Russian girl’s farts smell just like her mother’s,
Old Hannah that gave birth
To seven kids back in the desert where her ancestors wandered
Bewildered by the hot sun—
Pharaoh’s men on their backs, riding camels into the hot wind—
Old Abe coming home to the tent where he had his way with everyone,
But that was then and now I’m sitting downwind
From young Hannah and her dreams of Anastasia—
I won’t forget her, not after laying that hot one
Like Jill on the hill she came tumbling down—
It’s almost enough to make me wish Mila Kunis were Japanese,
But she isn’t and neither is Bill Burroughs but the rest of the Beats were
Hip to sniffing Russian girl’s farts like cold borscht on a hot night, her feet in stockings, too drunk to remember her own name—
Sitting at her laptop farting the night away,
Graffiti on the walls saying Stalin is great and all must obey,
It’ll just take a minute, as she looks you in the eye
And tries to make you wear a Pushkin mask
I’ve lost track of the car alarms going off all night, I’ve lost track of everything, lost in the fog—
It doesn’t even matter how ugly the girl is, it looks and smells like Heaven
And all the signs point in her direction—
A perfect machine, every move a poem,
Crying out like Jesus on her sacrum’s cross,
Did I mention she was ugly and part Korean,
Not worthy to carry my sandals because she needs more tattoos,
Give or take seconds of eternity, **** as a bug-eyed Spaniard
Giving birth to a swarm of flies, no one noticing she’s wearing her head upside down—
Just like her soul—
It can’t be denied hers is an old soul, born on an island during an earthquake—
Performing miracles with her faith, Jews dying slowly in the gas chambers—
No one would want such a fate, it goes without saying, but it’s too late—
She drinks her milk thinking of her grandmother milking cows—
And all she has to do is go down to the corner store—
She shuffles the cards and blows another ****,
This one louder than the several that came before—
She puts on her glasses and answers the door leaving factories in her wake—
Whenever she speaks it’s always in her sleep,
The words Russian, the voice a low purr and Anastasia weeps
In so many ways she’s like her Arab ancestors in their chains,
In other ways she’s like cement, her farts loud you must admit
Everybody turns around when she cuts one
That brings to mind a legend of the rain forest—
Her ancestors wandering the desert until an oasis appears out of nowhere,
Old Hannah giving birth to the seven prophets, farting her way to immortality,
Accidentally beautiful to some small degree—
Crucifix in hand, a stake through the heart of a blonde—