The circle,

Crimson hooded,

Black robed wickens of sorts.

Dancing around the dead,

Salivating in anticipation,

A feast of flesh and bones.

No ill will did they harbor,

Nor wish for victims demise;

Fate granted them favor.

Not at Satan’s command,

This is their nature.

Despised by the living

As a filthy wretched horde,

Outcasts of nature

Though their purpose is divine.

They are mocked and ridiculed,

Loathed and feared,

Still they offer back to the earth

What the earth has taken.

The vulture’s cry–

A lonesome song.

Treated as lepers of the sky,

Precious are they…

In the natural chain.

.

~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~