Mausoleum

In passed days all the nows gone bad,
Held too long, believed to be useable ‘til not.
And saved for what?
Something better yet to come?
A comeless something just as well,
even if not better.

The metallic tang of lust.
(like warm ice cream, she mused)

At first she panted in her sleep.
Then, later calmed and seemed
often even mummily still.
In the morning, all the seers and wisemen
of the kingdom could not rouse her
nor divine her omens.

That mystery was her majesty.

But then one bull-rushed orphan
looked into her eyes
And saw the profundity of their depth,
Leaned close to find the truth
and fell to a fitting death.

Upon the jagged rocks below his offal
offered up a stinking nothing
of a mess.
Unsurprising, really, since the darkness
was what he’d sought and the nothing
was his aught.

So foundered on her golden shore,
his sightless eyes gaze skyward;
The hand that, with brutal fondess
laid her agape,
Called forth the uphoric tide,
(the fountain flowing deep and wide),
Now chapped and osteoid points
(abstractly) to a point indetermine.

And the rot goes on. . .
The stench, the stench. . .

Ashes. . . Dust. . .