Vulture Eyes

By E.B. Keane-Farrell

I’m living in a paradox

Of vultures, eyes, and scores.

I’ve encased my world in to an orb

Of nullifying death.

I neighbor broken promises

And room with white lies.

My peers are broken hearts

And empty bottles of gin.

“And that,” I say to you,

“Is how it will be.”

I once said, “I want to leave this world”

And presently, I did.

What I never could have seen

Was this world bequeathed to me.

I want to escape this paradox,

This orb, this crushing gland.

To no longer have to wipe tears with my hands,

To no longer have to always see the burdens.

If I could reverse all this

Then, certainly, I would.