Vulture Culture

I had a feeling my world was amiss. I’d been dizzy, foggy, confused, listless. There was familiarity there, beside me, dog-like loyalty. Curiosity kept pulling at the leash, trying to change my direction. An auspicious white light in the distance caught my eye, illuminated by freshly sprouted emerald grass. My stomach turned, my heart skipped. Calling for closer inspection, though it terrified me, an omen, best avoided despite undeniable necessity. I still had to see. Reticent steps, revealing a clearer collage. Feathers. A clue. Like downy reluctant clouds dripped a few bits to remind me I’m here on earth and my attention is needed. Speckled with flecks of blood, I wonder, rain drops, tears, why is this here? I followed the feathered trail far into the forest, my heartbeat quickening, shaking, as the light grew dim. Reminding myself how brave I’ve been, how strong I am. A professor of self-protection.

Startled. A venue of vultures took flight, angered at my sight. Giant wings like falling trees, domino style, one after the other, exhaling wind through my hair, sending a shiver down my spine. Freshly dead doves lay scattered, feathers hung from the trees, a contradictory decoration, a celebration or an admonishment. Amongst the mess rests a suitcase, tattered and torn, dirty and draggled. Yet sealed and stitched with your name just visible. I should have known it was you, sneaking your way into my dreams while you sneak your way out of my life. Flooded by uncertainty, won over by curiosity, I opened the remains of a life committed to a box and cried. Buried inside and bursting to be set free, words, secrets, promises and pacts. There must be more than this? A hidden compartment? An answer to your betrayal, your leaving, your reason? Perhaps the vultures had eaten it away. The carrion of your heart. Or mine. I search the remains only to find more pain. But there’s a slight glimmer. There, beneath disturbed leaves and raw bones, a cracked mirror. I recognize the value of it’s reflection, eyes locked on my own longing. A gift I gave to you when your truth was mine. Reclaimed, for you could no longer see, out of time. Nothing left but blame.

You forgot that I am a wild fire. You aren’t precise enough to snuff my flames. Not willing to hold your misery. I take the pieces that belong to me, tear the photographs in half, come to my senses and pronounce enough. Slide my smiling memories securely in my chest pocket. You can’t have that. Sitting on the fence, a feather tucked behind my ear, watching with beady eyes, vulture culture, while the rest of you burned. Sending bright white smoke back to blend with the clouds from whence you came. You are forever nothing more, than a temporary cloud to my glorious sun.

(Image from Pinterest)

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