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a poem by Thea Robin Engst
Debt slaves. How else are we supposed to get through the day? We pile them on like ten ton bricks, slide them through scanners like planks in desert sand. They escorted him through his Death Walk to the Afterlife, is someone waiting for us with a scroll of receipts on papyrus? The child-king can only give advice now. When I wanted change I made it. When I left one name for the next I meant it. The people who erased him sparked no kind of interest in me as I stood before the gilded tomb museumed in Atlanta. Gold was the flesh of the gods, so when pharaohs left this world they wore it to the next. But I want to leave lighter, with ash wings, like moths. |