mold grows
in wispy tufts
across his
weathered face
a dessicated
mummy sitting
patiently waiting
to see the sun

facing westward
in a marble tomb
unknowing that
he was never
meant to witness
its golden rays

bound by
yellowed bandages
bereft of
heart or brain
stuffed with
flower petals
and spices
as currency
in another realm
where the trappings
of mortal weakness
are just mirages
over the next dune

a corpse dreaming
in tattered rags
of desire given flesh
as maggots burrow
in the marrow of
sublime serendipity

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