Every heap of earth lasted on my shoulders, the marmoreal skin,

The dirt in my wrinkles and crevices, the non-existence of clutter.

 

I could breathe as centuries past and all I had was my love, the memory

Thereof. As I was standing there, as I would, buried in an thalassic necropolis,

 

I could barely move, the never-ending pose of my dedication and character,

Chiselled beneath the sandstorms and grasslands, my silhouette entangled

 

In the fabric of the subterranean, my mouth shut, I sensed every grain around

My pores. The pismires on my eyelids, I couldn’t remember whether I had been

 

Created with my eyes open or closed, I smelled my maker’s hands, the odour

Of hair, scratched at the roots, underneath fingernails, I awaited what had never

 

Been lost, but did not survive. Longing made me aware that I was on my own now.

All my senses have been dormant for the longest time now. Would I even recognise

 

The rays of sunlight when they burn my face once more? Resurrect me and drain

My earthy cabinet? I remembered the sight of hands as if it had been just yesterday.

 

First I had been a block of marble, then an image inside a mind, I happened and

Happened, created was I and stood tall and for the first time I was seen, I could be,

 

I don’t know how I ended up in this darkness, I saw a city burn and I fell alongside it.

My story had not been fully written yet, there was more to come as they plucked me

From my underground.

religious image statue
Photo by Saph Photography on Pexels.com

 

 

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