Who Laughs Last . . .
In the arid sun-bleached wasteland
of the bleak and famished east
beyond the pathless wadi where
the ancient vipers come to die,
out where no vultures dare to fly,
far past the dessicated dunes,
there looms the first and most
beloved shrine of dread Osiris.
In post-apocalyptic gloom,
beneath the scarlet writhing skies
where vacant silence long prevailed,
thunder, like titan laughter, booms.
The dust of bones coating the temple
of the monarch of the graves
flies out and up in frantic whirlwinds
lusting desperately for rain.
From his long-neglected throne
Osiris stares into the crippled
west where cataclysm glows in
lethal storm clouds, red and black.
From stony lips, a sudden crack across
the visage of the king and, all the while,
at the corners of his adamantine eyes,
rock wrinkles in a hint of sacred smile.
Posted on Magnapoets May 26, 2006.