You pick my soul as the buzzards do a corpse
Tearing it with your great beak, into a million pieces
Scattering those tiny shards to the wind,
as you've not even the good graces to swallow them
The times you've lain hands on my flesh,
Etched into my memory,
Like names on tombstones
Only never to fade with passing time
As I am timeless in my curse
And so,
my soul may well be your feast
But I,
Shall be your
Cyanide
~A