Patience Of A Vulture

She needs to catch her breath ...

cries that scream from the grave

are seared into still moments.

loss, that not even full moons

can withstand, while muffled sounds

of pain meet her on her pillow

and dreams of arthritis bones hang

from dead hands. she wakes to the sun

starved and crushed cold into sand,

as ashes are scattered by her own fingers,

the others buried deep within the layers

where vultures circle,

awaiting the erosion of coffin and land.