The vultures,
They circle over a forbidden heart
A heart that has not yet died,
But is black as the night

They feast,
In patterns they swarm
Diving, and tearing flesh
Piece by piece until the bones are dry

Where do we go when we are the hunted?
Where do we run to when the ghosts are behind us?

Do we turn around to face them?
Do we run away and talk in circles?

Life is a giant merry go round,
Where the scenery changes everyday
Yet we call it progress
Because it's a new picture