A Vulture's Descent

He perches high on borrowed stone, 
wings stretched wide to see by all. 
A lord of lessons, flesh and bone. 
The king of his own.  

He speaks as though the truth were his,
each word a verdict, cold and sure, 
convinced that what he says just is 
no room for doubt, no open door. 

He cries out loud, a grating shriek
that fills the room with the same script. 
All thunder mouth and hollow beak, 
all just noise and empty screech. 

At the table, he carves the air.
At the chalkboard he holds the floor. 
The pullets, chicks nod, the venue stares, 
all too tired to keep the score. 

But ravens talk behind closed walls,
and whispers travel fast and far. 
They know the weight of all he calls wisdom
is just a bent iron bar. 

The vulture feeds on those who fall,
yet cannot see his own decay. 
Circling wide, he owns it all, 
while what he rules just slips away. 
 
For power gripped with trembling hands
will crumble soft as ashen bone 
and every tyrant understands, 
too late, he never owned the throne.