(no subject)
Withered, warm and dry, flush with rot and the sickly sweet scent of flowers and oils. I've been lying here a long time, comfortable in my disintegration. I recall when I felt them draw my mind out, wet and slippery on a hook, mixed with mucus and blood. The relief was overwhelming, so content to smile, sigh, and slumber.
My priests are dead, my followers have forgotten me. My tomb was swallowed up by time and in it I slept surrounded by skeletons. Wars won, banners burned, kingdoms rose and fell.
What once was, stillness as respite, has become a bible singed by the very fires we lit in celebration of our victory. The trumpets are sounding again though, forgotten kings stir, the dead called to make right the sins of the living. Laws unwritten in the fervor of what was. My temple is buried in corpses, a fallen god that has forgotten the delicate strokes of creation.
Entering my sanctuary, breaking the sacred circle that contains my crumbling body, holding forward a torch to light the way into my burial chamber. Embers graceful like moths trembling with frailty threaten to burn and then... out, snuffed by the strangled still air. Not one, though.
A single fallen star kisses my remains. The desert air has sucked all of the moisture out. I've never needed water to live, instead sand has filled up my lungs and stomach and heart, my ribs are cracked and covered with the leather of my hide. A gasp as the spark ignites the papyrus wrapped around the bones that once held my head high. Brown, brittle, burning now, bursting into flame, it spreads. First my face is melting, crackling, my unseeing eyes ignite and burst into balls of fire. The hollow hole in my head where my brain lived houses sacred immolation, spreading down my throat like the air I haven't breathed in so long. Down into my lungs, conflagration respiration, and then my heart, pumping magma through my long dead veins.
They are chanting again, singing songs in my praise, songs no living ear has heard. At first whispers, madness, indecipherable codex. Then a shout, volume increasing, rallying. The spirits of the dead sing through the roar of the flames, calling me back. I move.
Twitching, rising, curling up like a burnt insect and then writhing, opening, stretching like the sky, enveloping my domain. I explode inside of my temple, the heat melting stone, sticky, liquid, warm like life itself spilling out on your breast. I cry out, reborn, and the sands burying my mausoleum fuse into a glass sea reflecting my radiant aura, blinding morning come to the islands of night in the sea of woe.
My priests are dead, my followers have forgotten me, but I stumble out into the desert. I will illuminate the shadows of the fallen. I will incinerate the sun. I will burn every black spot clean, and then I will anoint myself in the ashes, and you will know then that I have returned.
My priests are dead, my followers have forgotten me. My tomb was swallowed up by time and in it I slept surrounded by skeletons. Wars won, banners burned, kingdoms rose and fell.
What once was, stillness as respite, has become a bible singed by the very fires we lit in celebration of our victory. The trumpets are sounding again though, forgotten kings stir, the dead called to make right the sins of the living. Laws unwritten in the fervor of what was. My temple is buried in corpses, a fallen god that has forgotten the delicate strokes of creation.
Entering my sanctuary, breaking the sacred circle that contains my crumbling body, holding forward a torch to light the way into my burial chamber. Embers graceful like moths trembling with frailty threaten to burn and then... out, snuffed by the strangled still air. Not one, though.
A single fallen star kisses my remains. The desert air has sucked all of the moisture out. I've never needed water to live, instead sand has filled up my lungs and stomach and heart, my ribs are cracked and covered with the leather of my hide. A gasp as the spark ignites the papyrus wrapped around the bones that once held my head high. Brown, brittle, burning now, bursting into flame, it spreads. First my face is melting, crackling, my unseeing eyes ignite and burst into balls of fire. The hollow hole in my head where my brain lived houses sacred immolation, spreading down my throat like the air I haven't breathed in so long. Down into my lungs, conflagration respiration, and then my heart, pumping magma through my long dead veins.
They are chanting again, singing songs in my praise, songs no living ear has heard. At first whispers, madness, indecipherable codex. Then a shout, volume increasing, rallying. The spirits of the dead sing through the roar of the flames, calling me back. I move.
Twitching, rising, curling up like a burnt insect and then writhing, opening, stretching like the sky, enveloping my domain. I explode inside of my temple, the heat melting stone, sticky, liquid, warm like life itself spilling out on your breast. I cry out, reborn, and the sands burying my mausoleum fuse into a glass sea reflecting my radiant aura, blinding morning come to the islands of night in the sea of woe.
My priests are dead, my followers have forgotten me, but I stumble out into the desert. I will illuminate the shadows of the fallen. I will incinerate the sun. I will burn every black spot clean, and then I will anoint myself in the ashes, and you will know then that I have returned.