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.