entombed in a cartouche
before their transfiguration escapes the orbit of the past and blazes heroic across the skies of old interments in space
their only distant relative the Sun God
now translated in the language of the future
they speak more volumes than histories can be accomodated in a hidden
library supervised by any scrivener of old inks and colours
scrambled as lucid as a child writes backwards in a mirror of the future
as every isocline competes for the mastery of mathematics in a conversion of ambitious words to art itself
in the afterlife of every Pharoah each moment is counted in pentameters of grief
Flynnpoetry 