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.
We turn our heads but cannot turn our eyes from the revolting spectacle before us; the grisly reminder;
Hope feeds best on broken dreams.