i counted seventeen vultures
circling above to rend my spoiled flesh apart
and feed me to their starving children

i thought i saw a raven
mocking my unfortunate fate
perched solemnly on a chiseled granite bust
weeping with plutonian ponderings

as the foolish crows
sang me a heartless elegy
the epistles crumbled to ashes in my palms
and my fountain pen dried out
into blotted shadows

if only heaven were to open up
and save me from the ominous darkness
but there's no room for another soul
to save; no vacancy to give

so i huddle beneath the branches
of the dying willow tree
and waited for them to take me alive.