Non Grata

I look at the sky.
A vulture hovers over
the horizon chest
like a tin pectoral cross,
barely hanging by a thread.

Smell of carrion.
I lie on the ground and see
the vulture falls down
into the cloudy collar.
The sky lost the faith. Like me.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2015

53 thoughts on “Non Grata

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