Vultures
When you lick bleed, you cry when you drink. Dreaming
blacks holes in the head, and then nothing. All disappear, leaving only a patch of dried blood on a blue cushion.
Waiting for the last sighs, they sniff the air, the sweet aroma of defeat. The shadow of your ego, as the promise of your life. And when you spit them laugh.
Friendship is only painful memory of what never happened. Black shadows are reflected on your life barren, where for years you've sown green hopes. Those who have seen sprout, the shoots were only mirages of your dreams already broken. Nothing is ever blossomed. And now follows the progress of the worms silent towards you. But
faster worms, vultures.
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