The birds of prey are on their way
They feast upon the last of the fears and swallow them whole into the sun beyond the horizon where they hide in the burning belly until it warms my face in the morning
I’m the clutch of infant birds that feeds on the regurgitated fear it purges directly down my throat day after day
Day after day
Day after day
Day after day, but, one must imagine Sisyphus happy
June 4, 2026, 10:15 p.m.
Those night birds that feed the sun are returning for more scraps of all the fear and sickness to chew and chew and chew and funnel away into the fiery core.
Come on then, crooked beaks! Let’s fuckin’ have ye, then! Ye’re forgotten with every sunrise, anyway!
June 9, 11:00 p.m.
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