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Vulture in the sky


Burns like the hackneyed flame of lore.

Ever present.

Today, for a piece of chocolate,

tomorrow for fame,

yesterday it awoke for undying love.

There's seldom a pattern to its evolution,

fragmented as the matter that binds me.

What's the yin to desire's yang?


Insufficiency of self,

I believe not that I am complete;

without these banal desires clutching at my soul,

like the mourning hands of a widow at the shroud.

As pointless an act,

as is the congested emotion that drives it.

Yet I want.

A word that defines its own duality,

A desire and the lack that begets it.


I do not know what I desire.

But it arises,

In the infamy of a B minor falling through the octave.


Resounding echoes.

Like that of an empty vessel,

that fondly remembers the riches it once held;

and regurgitates them in sound,

empty retches, just uncouth sound,

for even vomit needs matter.

So, what then matters?

I know I want more.

With every want,

I realize, I want for nothing;

but the comfort of a want.

For what do I need to need me?






Strange how this need for everything,

is because I need to be needed.

If I needed myself,

would I then need for anything else?

I know not.

But I know,

that like a vulture circling the high free skies,

eyes peeled for a diseased soul to be deceased;

my sight too is bound,

beyond my freedom,

to the next wanted to die,

so I can taste the fleeting satisfaction of consumption.

What do I need, to need me?

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