That old vulture is perching at the foot of my bed

Empty headed, lurching forward on a long neck

Strong, cold staring eyes, set sharp, dark in 

Un-feathered features 

As it slowly baits its breath and squawks 


The creatures not for killing,

Lies in wait, watches time, welcomes you to your fate,

Into the lonely company of flies,  

Who, unaware that you exist,

Only settle when you are kissed by death.

The breath is often heavy in my throat,

Gloating beast, feast your eyes, remote in glance

For it will eat your flesh given half the chance

Laughing hyena, preying on my mind,

Cannot find any peace,

When I die at the end

That vulture will descend and lick its lips,

Tear my skin to strips 

And begin to pick my bones dry…