More of a confessional lately, isn't it?

Offsetting the vibe of this being art

there's a barometric pressure gathering over this mausoleum

pushing my head down so my eyes cannot look up the path

to see the funerary gallery as this storm-dirge plays the accompaniment to my march

across a mud road that feels like a steep ascension to-

all my work collected; rotting to high heaven

above this monument, within a grim eye-portent, swim the shadows of tears

vultures circling on the wings of thunder reflect bolts in their hungry pupils

starving as they swoop to bite of crumbling stone rooftops

nibbling of gargoyles, salt and concrete in their beaks

like arrows loosed from a bow of divine insight

their quiver a gray, bellowing squall

with rapturous rupture the dive bomb begins

upon the dead raised by the flood from the grave

the aces scream that all important call

an eye opens on the world below to behold the feeding

finally, void-borne teardrops fall.