carrion (badly written sonnet)

Vultures circle in the sky,

and call their friends; they've found a meal.

They've found a carcass, not yet dry—

they do not know it can still feel.

It feels their talons in its flesh,

ribcage cracked, and tender heart.

The wounds that slashed its body fresh,

life never had a chance to start.

It tries to wag its tail, tries to lift a limping paw:

perhaps a vulture's kindly wing,

might soothe the itch on its bloody maw.

The vultures do not see, they turn their gaze away.

Their meal tastes mighty good,

and talons wipe the prints of where the dog once stood.