The Buzzard on the branch

The buzzard on the branch; it knows my name.

It soars in at my darkest times, perched on the branch above my head.
Watching me with its dark, hungry eyes; it wishes me dead.

Waiting, wanting, wishing for me to fall.
Staring at me intently, with eyes as lifeless as a doll.

It knows my thoughts, and sees me struggle as I live on.
It’s hoping I don’t make it to see another dawn.

There have been times when it almost got fed,
Times when I felt I was better off dead.

But then I woke up, and knew that I made it another day.
I outsmarted that old buzzard, and made it without becoming prey.
But I don’t want to die.
Not today.

© 2014 Augustine A. Zavala

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Comments 4 comments

Chris Antonaros profile image

Chris Antonaros 14 months ago from Athens, Greece

Very nice poetry! Dark and strong with powerful words and symbolism! Good Job!


A.A. Zavala profile image

A.A. Zavala 14 months ago from Texas Author

Thank you Chris. Sometimes our best work comes from our darkest times. Thanks again for the visit.


Gypsy Rose Lee profile image

Gypsy Rose Lee 14 months ago from Riga, Latvia

Most creative poetry. Love the picture of the buzzard.


A.A. Zavala profile image

A.A. Zavala 14 months ago from Texas Author

Thank you Gypsy. It's still hungry.

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