When things balance


When things balance

em = By Paul Buckberry

The report on TV was heard

while a lone vulture bore witness to death.

He was pampered. He witnessed destruction,

cities made of matchsticks: again he gorged.

He witnessed green puss drain into the sea.

Promoted to a guard,

he witnessed steam spiraling up to blood stained skies,

and watched quite well balanced.

The report thundered on

to all blind and deaf mutes shrugging shoulders.

He bore witness to the waters demise,

sucked dry like serum in a plague,

it began to dehydrate the legion

until the land lay scared.

Barren; everything the report sucked dry —

and he watched, quite well balanced.

Like gluttony, the report did not stop,

on the Universe its great might was dropped —

the report had clocked on.

But its backbone was gruel,

the deuce within had sucked out all life.

It lay crippled, growing the worst for wear

(like gingerbread mixed with water and milk)

until at last, long annihilation.

Its might forever marred,

it returned to dust without a cry.

Human skulls stared entranced.

The vulture flew. The vulture thought.

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