Paul Brookes is asking for Tutankhamun-inspired poems today. This is mine.
In the dry dark cracked open,
gold is mute, gemstones without fire,
air without breath.
The walls crawl
with picture-written magic,
in processions of silence.
Lamplight pierces the gloom
of rooms sealed in lead, beeswax
and the deep indifference of time,
where corpses, babies and a boy,
dried, gutted and embalmed, wrapped
and barded with amulets and prayers,
are still dead.
10 thoughts on “Desecration”
All true. I like the sound and image of stanza 2.
Thank you. I used to be fascinated by Ancient Egypt when I was a child. It gives me the creeps now.
I realize how little I know about it. 🤣
I used to be a fount of wisdom on the subject. I’ve forgotten most of it though 🙂
Wow… I could see this imagery. Excellent.
What bothers me is the mummies in museums. Those are human bodies, not Art. Leave them in peace where you found them. (K)
Yes, I know. It’s as thought we’re ever so reverential about death, inventing euphemisms so we don’t even have to upset people by using the D word, but as soon as someone dead is interesting, has lots of gold and stuff to draw the crowds, all respect goes out the window.
We are mostly unwilling to face Death. In any form.