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.