A Vulture Named Hope

Not birds of prey, but scavengers seeking out the refuse of this world.
Weak and dying flesh of broken dreams and failed expectations filling bellies voided by flight.
All-consuming yet mere mortal, Hope flies to and fro seeking sustenance in the most un-seemly places.
Conversion is this bird’s business, however unglamorous it might be.
Bite by bite, ripping flesh from bone, the withered vine bears only the sun-bleached remains of a fruit once promising.
Yet now only this vulture, Hope remains picking flesh from seed, head turned down, now raised to heaven in a prayer of thanks.
And we.
We turn our heads but cannot turn our eyes from the revolting spectacle before us; the grisly reminder;

Hope feeds best on broken dreams.

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