Sarcophagus

I long for these ancients to speak to me but we have rescued them from the world of the dangerously alive and plummeted them into a vast pyramidal tomb sealed with wax. It is a tomb of glass, where the preserved fustiness of eras past can slowly shed any traces of the epithelial cells that crafted them. I see the painted sarcophagus, but not the Pharaoh only the ghost of the one who painted its symbols and hieroglyphs. A few spatters of red paint encrusted on her face, the smell of oils, a reward of coins, a night of victorious cries of pleasure, and in the morning, a mere woman checking the alabaster jars so her unused paint would not dry to powder like the Pharoah’s blood.