The Vulture (The Id)

A vulture once mistook me,

For a slice of drying meat.

His yellow talons shook me,

As he dragged me down the street.

I never knew the vulture,

Was my own self in disguise.

‘Cause in our riddled culture,

We’re all perfect in our eyes.

Maybe one day I’ll grow wings,

And drag others down along

With all my dysfunctional things,

Stacked where they don’t belong.

The wings, they will be black,

They will span the length of Earth.

They will split right out my back

Like a mutant giving birth.

Though winged, I will not fly,

‘Cause I won’t know what I’m doing.

I’ll have splinters in my eye,

Too blind for love pursuing.

I’ll mistake innocent dwellers,

For chunks of deceased deer.

I’ll rip open healthy fellers,

And then bite them on the ear.

That’s the vulture that is in me,

His beak is slicing through my chest.

I just hope that you’ll forgive me,

For being a bitter, ruthless mess.

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Olga's Poetry & Thoughts

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