Wailing and sobs — a great stone grinds into place.
The smell of cold stone, blood, sweat in the dark.
A ticking starts in the Corpus like the sound of a
great engine cooling, or a death’s head drumming
for a mate. The Body hits ambient temperature.

With great solemnity the bacteria begin their work,
hoping to unweave the work of creation, sending
cadaverine and putrescine rising in the dark like a hymn
to Abaddon. An unseen Hand stays their efforts.

Somewhere a Soul is working its way back through a void.
A jittering starts in the limbs. Quantum improbabilities abound.
Breath fogs the darkness. Somewhere there is singing, then light

Copyright © 2020 Vasily Ingogly. All Rights Reserved.

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