Vultures
Vultures
They circle the sky.
Waiting patiently for something to die.
Back roads collect roadkill
They see far away over the hill
Flying creatures from above.
A fascinating bird brown in mud.
Vultures circling in the air.
Where the corpse is, they will gather.
A final plague is in place.
No fear face to face.
To the brink of death.
Wandering around just waiting overhead.
To them everywhere is a graveyard.
Beautiful food is not too far.
Buzzards wait their turn in line.
They stare down the dead on a metal sign.
Feed off the dead.
What a creepy job they have.
They will eat the corpse to the bone.
Their eyes are red resting next to a tombstone.
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