The carrion draws them,
The vultures circle around and around,
Eyeing the dead meat on the ground
With the ferocity of hungry scavengers.
Circling, one would think they are on top,
Soaring as if they are free to come and go,
As if they are free to feed and feed and feed
Without even the slightest worry in the world.
They descend down from the heights,
Swooping in a rush of feathered blackness.
What they don’t realize will kill them,
But they are too ravenous to sense
The poisonous meat that they consume
In complete and twisted irony,
Shall in the end consume them.
Their deaths shall paint the ground.
The trap has been set
And the bait taken.