Vitreous Humour

I could hear its beak clipping,
the sound of scissors slicing through sinewy tissue,
my sinewy tissue, Achilles’ heel, the
backs of my knees.

Its eyes were dark eternity.
It wore a lustrous cloak of nightshade reflecting the grey sky,
beautifully textured, pitch pitch pitch.
How I quivered at the thought

of my eyes, drunk and picked
clean and still glimmering with fear.
I bet it would taste victorious and sweet, like a syrup
comprised of my soul, glass and pane.

He squawks cawks and calls into the air.
I could tell it was akin to
a call into the kitchen, to a lover at the stove,
“Smells great, sweetheart”, licking its lips.