Molten Poetry

Let it burn.

In the elder times,
they tattooed a curse
over my heart.

Bright red,
broad strokes,
tattoo-scarab,

ancient art,

evoking the wrath of gods

(or the peasant folk)

against the ones
who chose to recite

the grave-robbers’ cant,
the protecting ward,
and the prayer of thieves,

to bring them safely home,

after they grasped
my mummy’s heart
and heard the
mummy’s
waking groan.

Now, unto them,
I send my curse,
the gift of my heart,
long dead
and better left

undisturbed.


©️ Tenpenny, 2019.

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