Triangles of Eagles Fly

Triangles circling the top
of a spire of blood,
Rising in crescendo this
stable motion set,
And glow like suns
before their auras break,
And they come crashing
down in wider spirals,
Their vital fuel
depleted.

Triangles circling the top
of a spire made
of sacrifice,
Like bald eagles in the sky
or some mosquitoes,
Relentless, mindless they
are not alive, but feed,
As long as there is still
an old man in
the sky.

Triangles crashing from the top
to the bottom, slowly
straight, downward
pointing at
us.