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,
or the thieves’ silent oath,
to bring them safely home,
after they grasped
my ashen heart
and heard the
mummy’s
waking groan.
Now, unto them,
I send my curse,
the gift of my soul,
long dead
and better left
undisturbed
and alone.
©️ Obol, 2019-2020.
