“PICKED”

Grief is a magnificent black buzzard,
looming low in the dry air.
It hovers, constant as the tick of time;
it's eyes trained,
it's shadow on top of you,
blocking out the sun.
It glides over us so quiet,
we forget we're not alone.
And it swoops down.
It swoops down and spreads
wide wings, wrapping us up;
it's finger-like feathers
tickling us to our bone.
Grief is a vulture, I am sure of.
It will not leave
until it has picked and scattered
every part of you it can scavenge.
It will not leave
until you are nothing
and you are gone
or
until you are strong.
So strong that it does not dare
hover near.
And it moves on
to find someone new;
someone closer to death than you.

narrative poem written on 07-23-2016 by: on mattkane.com
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