Poem: Three eagles

Climbing up jagged peak,
led by myself,
a glowing being of sorts.
There was neither sun nor moon,
but the light of heaven.
Left alone, my hands struggled
against the large grey boulders
along the winding path.
My feet stayed grounded through narrow passage
dotted with sweet smelling sage.
At the height of my walk-about,
I turned the corner at the precipice to find three eagles much much larger than me,
proudly feasting on carrion.
Two I could tell, didn’t have a mind for my presence,
bowed in their bloody discourse.
One eagle with golden eyes and wearing a white hood
looked at me intently,
longer than forever,
continuing to tear flesh from
what laid before this great bird and his counterparts.
He said in this my dream, “be sure to call it withered foul.
Let yours not be a forgotten nation.
I have been your over-watch
from the bleak morning
to brightest horizons.
The mountains have been your block to evil hoards,
safe from the elements,
greater risks to your otherwise peaceful life.
Your heart, if it is true,
will help you find your way off the barren mountain
to greater pastures.”

His great wings mightily flapped.
This symbol of our great nation,
lifted himself into the air
with the other two in a triangular formation
headed north.
What they left behind in their nest was the carcass of all plagues,
an old way of doing things.
Mirrors of our repeated history,
the consumption of poisons
and dangerous programming,
what old prophets and sages
called spells from
the worst of social devices.

What lay rotting there
was my enemy.