The old men sit around in

their group, drinking coffee.

They are laughing and guffawing

and topping each other’s

stories about how about and way back when.

When they were this and when

they were that, their lives, their loves,

their girlfriends.

Everyone having a bigger story than the last guy.

Harry sits there and laughs with them,

his hollowed out eyes a testament of the

fire raging inside his body, about to burn itself out.

He knows his laugh is empty as his fingers his cup.

Quietly, gently, the bird of prey sent

by the Angel of Death softly flaps its

wings and lands on his shoulder, silently.

He doesn’t appear to notice, but really, he

knows it’s there.

The men drink their coffee and laugh,

unconcerned.

Softly the bird sinks it’s claws into Harry’s

shoulder and with a mighty flap of those

night darkened wings, lifts him up and away.

The men in the group don’t seem to notice,

slapping each other on the back, it’s time to leave,

until next time.

cew 2015