When the trees
begin to clear
and the leaves fall away
you’ll find a city
built up into the mountains
old ancient buildings piled
one on top of the other
a haphazard jumble
each building falling
into the the rest.
The question unimaginable;
call on time to stop
abandon a career and sell your life
leave yourself with virtually nothing
and from this set out to find
a thriving nexus between
this world
and the next.
Out in the barrens
deep below the earth
down where the ground
is still cool and dank
there is a sealed chamber
where hangs suspended from coarse strings
under dust covered interwoven spider webs
a small curled desiccated package,
a lost womb;
its contents have gestated for a thousand years,
inside, something once human
only now, disproportionate, twisted;
yesterday this package began to glow
a very faint shimmering citrine
that washes the walls of the ancient chamber
in dim shades of amber;
long-legged spiders scurried to escape
when it started and now
on either side of of the package
from the walls
arms upon arms have begun to slowly emerge,
out of synch they waver;
skin and bone arms, wrinkled hands
each decrepit finger
hanging loose
a means of worship
for the small form above
as it begins to take shape;
among all the undulating arms
a single one near the top holds
between thumb and forefinger
a chain from which dangles
a medallion of purgation,
it will purify an old and forgotten body;
a second arm of note has fallen to the floor
only to turn up the palm of its hand, revealing
a ring of transmutation,
this ring will reanimate the form that hangs above
when moments from now
it falls from the ceiling to the floor
and shakily places the ring
upon its own aged finger;
a seam in the wall
directly behind the ring
has appeared
it reveals a short stone sealed aperture;
soon it will be opened.
No new injections in sight
but bad omens are not
a particularly pleasant
dose of medicine.
– matt at shadow of iris
[This poem has been inspired by the work of Zdzislaw Beksinski]
