vultures

standing wrinkles leak
stale cigarette smoke.
eyes sunk so deep
in their sockets
they stare at tar polluted vessels.

the sun dries our hides
and flies spill from our mouths
in plumes of greasy vapors.

vultures sit on our shoulders
and pick at dead flakes of skin.
they sit, voids without souls,
and they wheeze
with every shallow breath.
waiting for the next set
of tar shot eyes
to roll over, into the dust.