I am the god who fought for
you,
Wandering Osiris, my kin,
enslaving foes;
You have tasted nature’s
brew,
Forgetting what once held chance
in throe.
What I see amid the gauze and
gusts
Is life in prism distended,
Rotting monuments turned to
dust,
Sanity, identity—prayers
suspended.
You slipped the core, fighting
duality;
Black and white, yin and yang,
Alien memory, a debt of
brutality—
But what, Osiris, amid the dirt,
went wrong?
You stood beneath the temple
walls
Reading recorded time in tablet
glyphs,
But all you remember from symbolic
halls
Is a woman—dried Egyptian,
painted stiff.
Note: allusions to the Egyptian Book of the Dead, “Ozymandias,” and Daoism.