after the vultures
and the company of your own cries
there’s the soreness that lies
just above your heart
to remind you you’re alive.
beaten down by granite fists
of perception and venom
stabbed by the daggers of your own doubts.
and those vultures?
mean-spirited beasts who love misery
better than the sun
waiting for your pain to be a feast for their kingdom.
what your heart whispers
with its eyes on a golden horizon
singing to you of your own hidden freedom:
‘pain is necessary for the birth of wisdom.’