Vultures of the Afterdeath: A tale that embraces the dying of thirst, cold hard truths of the desolate barren desert's....
Step into the raw reality, world where bald vultures and the other birds of prey dominate.
"Vultures of the Afterdeath" isn't just a story; it's an immersive journey into the stark realities of the afterlife in the desert, echoing the complexities of the human cowboy's and indian's experience.
After immersing yourself in "Vultures of the Afterdeath," we hope you walk away with a profound understanding of the reality of life, that people die in the desert It's a tale designed to provoke thought, inspire reflection, and connect you with the enduring dream weaver spirit of your light as a feather soul that floats free, out of your body when you die. Discover the story that speaks volumes for itself about life's unforgiving reality yet beautiful truths of nature that leaves nothing to go to waste and the sad reality one animals death helps another animal live.
Vulture's of the Afterdeath
There the vultures of the afterdeath, feathered omen’s of doom. They circle in the sky, black halo that the end is coming soon. New world, mob of scavenger’s, coming from near and far to soar. Bird’s of prey, flock of a congregation, biding their time before, gathering religiously, waiting till their soul leaves their body, circling in the sky, round wreath, waiting till they die, dark cloud hanging over their heads.
Yeah, it's a sure sign of a funeral send off, wake party. Birds spreading the word, talking turkey sign, cry’n wolf over the carrion, after you idiot’s, coyote's howling tear open the tough skin, hairy hide carcase, warm sundance ritual of talon’s dancing on their grave, walking all over them, out cold.
Condor’s leaving nothing to go to waste, gorge and digest it slowly, pecking their eye’s out, feeding off their brain’s. Before Christ, old world raptor’s, testament to life’s reality, all of them appearing from nowhere…in your dying hour's.
Their bald eagle, skin head buzzard’s with hawk eye’s bowing their heads, anointed in their blood, swallowing their pride with strong stomachs and big lumps in their throats, hooked beaks that peck at their food, better late than never, swelled bulge in their neck’s with the crop’n it grain pouch full.
Birds of the same feather, that stick together, New world vultures, from different order’s, dancing on their grave, walking wear angels fear to tread, carrion carcase, crow's and raven's.
Everybody’s got a cross to bear, dying in the desert with them collapsing flat on their back, squinting at the sun hallucinating, geting crows feet lines, watching them circle above, ring leader of birds knowing their days are numbered, until they come off second best and kiss the dirt, bite the dust face first with a trail of tears, drops streaming down their dusty face.
Vulture's put'n the kettle on to wait, committee of crows, let'n off steam circling in the sky, geting ready to peck their eye’s out, feed off their brains when they take a tumble amongst the weeds, dead briar's blowing across the desert plains.