Buzzards

Laying on my back
anticipating their attack
looking to the darkened skies
the buzzards appear in my eyes

Hoping they descend downward
securing me in their sights
I see their silhouettes
overhead in the street lights

Still they circle teasing me,
prolonging their intended agony
I grow ever weary as I wait
impatient to meet my fate

A fate which has to be
my date with destiny
the last great hope for me
the last way out I see

Surveying the wreckage
excavation is left to do,
I plead with the buzzards,
to pick me clean of you.