In the Valley of the Kings
Destitute is the productive, empty lives
who Garner the plain
with heavy chains and a directive, pain.
Stone on stone they lay, the bedrock,
of their own, unheralded graves.
Each day a March of the little death,
terra-families in bondage to circumstance
until last breath.
Until Lifes taskmaster calls them asunder.
Until each ghosts the valley as a piece of it's render.
Rending afar into the forgotten memory
and silent voice of the landscape.
It being soul witness; sole attorney with a grimace,
to opine upon the court of the stars.
Ironic to be in the construction
of their own destruction,
of death in craftsmanship.
Servile-letting,
of whip, a chorusing,
coralling
into the building,
of the Tomb of another.
A demon king, Son of Sun basking.
Plumblined into their lives
as a heavier burden than stone.
Fortune-masking. Jeweled in fasting.
From the Valley of the Kings.
When they shall be. Redeemed. Everlasting.
Copyright © Jude Herrick | Year Posted 2019
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