Predatory Purgatory
Die lit | Lawrence Strothers | Painting
Predatory Purgatory by Roman Fails
predatory purgatory
sore wings beat upon clear sky
one more frigid night
follows another endless day
violent sun replaced by cursed moon
a fight in vain, certain doom
silver feathers leave its trail
and stained red is its tail
blood long dry, scraps from a kill
snap went the spine
crack went the skull
the song of a catch
chew of flesh and gristle
it cried victory with a piercing whistle
the memory of a kill
makes the vision foggy and the ears alert
something calls to the bird
scratching from below
in trees and branches
something delicious and carnal dances
the song has begun and not soon enough will the bird get its reward
driven mad by the thought
a swift dive and upon a branch perfectly still
sits the plump rodent
shiny eyes scan the horizon before it continues
the scratching, more scratching
no time is wasted as the bird extends dark claws at the creature below
the rodent raises eyes at the bird and as they lock the bird screeches
burning pain takes over
wings unfold and feathers shrink
ears grow and fingers bloom like daisies
the screech now a squeal
its fate had been sealed
shiny eyes and broad teeth become
the bird is now its prey
and still its predator
and sore beak digs into swell flesh
the bird, now 4 legged, thrashes
desperate to escape from the creature
whose talons reduced a belly to cuts and gashes
the rodent feels despair, fear of great proportions
as its spine snaps and the bird further contorts it
the bird like a machine, displays no reaction
nothing more than a breath of satisfaction
and as the rodent -formerly bird- lives it,
it understands a truth it’s only ever bore witness
the blood runs cold, and the pain is no more,
as the bird feels not legs, but wings once more
the bird sees its prey, now lifeless and twisted
now the predator again, despite what wished it
overcome with burning, molten fear
the bird took flight, with its own corpse at its rear
hopeless wings beat upon
frigid air as moon grows near
for the moon was certain, despite all this fear
a mighty beacon, of something true
and the closer it got, the more it knew
for the bird was not a bird, or a worm, or a shrew,
it was the light it saw, through violence distorted
and the moon got closer, and the bird shrank in comparison,
the circle grew massive, and bigger yet
no matter how close the bird, its legs would not set
the surface was distant and the bird more persistent
until white expanded in every direction
without a shred of sky the bird became one
the light, the cycle, it was all understood
a bird no longer, sore no longer.
