I am the vulture,
the feathered creature,
the afterlife deviant
with an abyssal glow
fading in my aged eyes,
searching for opportunity to rise
as I slice through pessimistic skies.

I am the claws that feast
on those who decompose.
I scavenge all that is left,
the bits no one cared to miss.

I am the devourer
of purgatorial descent,
the digestive system
of a life needlessly spent.
So don’t go asking yourself
where it all went when you’re
building up dust on your favorite shelf.

See, the webs are your mind
and that spider represents time,
and sooner than later it’s gonna die,
but don’t you fear, for I’ll always be here
plunging through the wicked air
ready to scoop up all that remains,
which accounts for a carcass
that isn’t worth a grain
and a family of flies
following you to the grave.

This is you and this is me,
and in the end delusion cries
as it realizes there’s only one destiny;
one final truth for your precious lies,
an honest ending of karma pecking out your eyes.