Wheeling Buzzards

Wheeling buzzards turn their circles in the sky
above the soft tableau, where, dying, I lie
fading away like a dream;

With harsh spectral cries upon me they descend;
With cruel slashing talons and hooked beaks they rend
apart my skull at the seams;

They invade the soft gray matter in my head,
inducing strange torments, until from my bed
I arise with morning’s gleam.

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