Buzzards

A buzzard inside me is calling, circling, has done since the day of my natal birth I've laughed at his black wingspan spreading blocking the heat the warmth of the sun I laugh at his skinny wrinkled girth, and their lack of any heavenly-tabled, crumb. Those buzzards might get their suppers, fill might digest my carcass empty shell -gorge that hungers malevolent hooked bill. Yet still, a Tibetan sky burial should suit well. I'd hover; I'd fast, in bliss and ecstasy, I'd gaze at them…in the bowels of hell. Amidst all of this, I'd thank myself lucky, I didn't fall under their un-brotherly knell.