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THE DEATH OF TUTANKHAMEN I. The king is dead--and layed within his place, and night has fallen as it did before, within his tomb he hides his golden face and waits to live and breath and love once more; a grain of sand will last as long has he-- young man--did they not tell you in your youth That time will fade away, and secretly, while you await, to feel and know the truth? And Tutankhamen, time will not reveal the secrets of the past, they fade away-- and all the things you long to know and feel are gone before they see the light of day. How old are you, young man, four thousand years-- or just as old as all our hopes and fears? II. You're just as old, I guess, as any dream and just as far away as space permits, improvident sometimes, and yet we seem agglomerated to a life that fits-- We come and go--in circumspectful daze-- disgruntled in our youth, and growing old, and never seem to see the proper ways and disinclined to hear the things we're told-- exhonerating all that we have known, who take until there's nothing left to give, for life is just a path that we have flown, from other dreams, where other dreamers live. This mass we call "myself" will soon return to heaven space, or maybe it will burn. III. The power in us all is dominant-- just as the time of Tutankhamens womb, from birth we go through life--intransigent and hope the best will be beyond the tomb. We hope that space is part of better things just as belief--in Akhen Atens day, we feel the same as did Egyptian kings who looked at life as where they'd choose to stay; exacerbated, as we live and grow, to better space, than what we have and feel, and though it's part of life we do not know-- it's just as dear--and just as harsh and real. How old are we? Not one could estimate, and if they did, they'd tilt the hands of fate. IV. The pylon gates that lead to peace of mind are open to the ones who search at night, but truth in life is sometimes hard to find and pyramids block out the glow of light-- while deep below--mastabas hold the past and keep it safe--from any mortal eyes-- with stores of grain--while sun gods gold and cast, stare into space--where only darkness lies-- and Tutankhamens silence is a thing to last five thousand years of growing old, at best--his wish was but to be the king within a life that's cast and locked in gold-- and Akhen Aten knows he is okay that's why he will not lead his soul astray V. but Akhen Aten hides his face at night-- and southern breezes cool the scorching air, and any sound is whispered soft and light-- because there's no one list'ning anywhere; nomadic tribes have perched upon his rock, and never knew that Tutankhamen hears-- each sound of life--each key that could unlock his mortal soul--if they would use their ears, if they would see--the sun god is a friend, and leads to light, where Tutankhamen sleeps, how many minds would see his mortal end-- is not his death--though in our mind it creeps-- and takes away the youth of ev'ry man and sends it to the time where time began; VI. How old are you--young man--why do you stare? The world awaits for you to raise your soul-- though fettered to the wind--and ev'rywhere, in time a dream will make you free and whole-- to walk again--the Valley of the Kings and ride upon the waters of the Nile-- where spirits bathe, and Nephritite sings, the secrets of the past--for yet a while, the world is obdurate of any scheme, that brings new life--once death has made its' call though greater men than you--have known this dream, not one still hides behind his secret wall-- and no remains--stay hidden to the past-- if golden chains are known to hold them fast. © ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet

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