A great vulture, swished down
flapping the sky
longer of curved talons
Puzzling me by its flight
It is how, some -
The wintery migrant
Pen their vagrant poems
Cusping their thoughts a little
And when the shadow
Slides down on the earth surface
They know their prey
And are in wait for the "likes".
It is a sin to 'like' and comment
Where they feed on carrion.
I am yet alive, and
Do my own poetry
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