Lazy revolutions at thirty-thousand feet,

Waiting for news of lives since past,

Catching only whispers of scent through carved bone.

 

Long since considered a monster,

With great, black cloak,

And death reeking upon odd, bald face.

 

Ugly thing, sitting like plague across deserts,

Lurking in wait for some unfortunate end,

Poaching the stories from bone.

 

Each grim reaper with flesh-tearing intent,

Respects duty and questions not moral optics,

Apprehensive only just at the sight of a carcass, alive.

 

Cowards remain ignorant to this stewardship,

Fragile humans quaking under fear of mortality,

Continue cycles of hatred toward things un-understood.

 

The grim reaper rids the growing world of disease,

Finds a thankless welcome for necessary work,

Unbothered: gratitude feeds not the stomach.

 

Perfectly suited for orderly profession,

Paving the way for the world to reclaim its carbon,

The Vulture remains unchanging,

Stoic,

and beautiful.