Omega

A poem about death

A Black Vulture does a figure-eight overhead.

Its colorless eyes scrutinize the terrain below,

its gray head craned downward, watching,

patiently waiting as its next meal

slowly roasts in the cracked earth of the desert.

The sun, a malevolent furnace, sends forth its radiation upon me,

as if it’s a servant of both Famine and Death.

 

My eyes catch glimpse of a cliff edge in the distance,

but my feet only slowly heed the thousands of synapses screaming

“Stop!”

 

Several hundred feet below,

the ground is a tangle of stone spikes,

beckoning with outstretched arms,

I linger on the threshold,

fighting to not plunge head-first

into its absolute embrace.

Trying to prevent ever having to see

with lifeless eyes.