VULTURES AT HARVEST. (An Original Poetry)
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Time is a string,
waiting to be plucked,
by vultures lurking,
gleaning in fields
where souls are bountiful.
on the third day,
when the beans shall sprout,
hawks in the air
gliding and fluttering
swooping to feed on infancy
and we shall be left again
like empty barns
VULTURES at harvest!
reaping off fear
like mushrooms
on decaying stem
waiting at the threshold
for staggering feet,
to finally tumble
halting to a disastrous end.
We are but surrounded,
by prying eyes
comrades in arms
waiting in line,
to unsheathe their daggers
on the mildest of nights
when our perimeters
are unsheltered like a bird's nest.
The land is encircled,
besieged on all sides
by vultures,
watching with assiduity
we're like farmers!
planting with incertitude
aware of perils
riding on the tallest of trees
As always I love the visceral feel of your Poetry Jose.
The imagery of the predators seems to reflect on the predatory nature of existence, and the ending of the poem really drives this home.
Dark in subject matter, but illuminating in its overall theme m8 👍🙂
Definitely there thanks a whole lot, I'm sorry I've been MIA lately it's a lot eating up my time and it's made me not responsive, I'm I'll reciprocate soon too, it's been a damn while
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A very nice picture
//1,2,3, gute Laune//