Darkness swallows the sun
draping his capes of iciness
Over the earth.
In the light of a harvest moon
The Rukh lands and folds back black wings.
The carrion eyes the prize,
Tearing and jabbing
At the rotting carcass
Of his decaying relationship.
The Rukh pecks at the
Bulging eyes of disappointment
Snatching at the maggots of despair.
He regurgitates the acrid years
Into the mouths of his young,
Abandoned by their mother.
Bleary-eyed his young
Gulp and gorge on their father’s
Decomposing honor.
He scavenges for blame and pity
Screeching at anyone who pokes
At his putrid prize.
He drains a jellied sickness
And in doing so infects himself
With oozing acrimony.
He breaks the bitter bones
On sharp stones of disillusionment
Scattering a life he once dreamed.
He picks clean the wrongs not righted.
And when he is finished
Flies out the way he came.

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