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.
© 2014 Augustine A. Zavala