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The Pharaoh's Sarcophagus

Those wise golden eyes were painted on the walls like insect oculus.
The table is set for two, but quite strangely there were no occupants.
Before the chipping of the sculpture of a sainted maiden in Valhalla…
The mosaic ceiling was translucent, but behind it He could see Allah.
He would remain prudent, so we wouldn’t lose it in the view of Allah.
In the skies of our own Valhalla…

On the unmade bed He laid, and on his small palm lay plain harmonicas,
With his eight fingers entwined to count out the last days of Hanukah.
The melodies wafted through the air, weaving around dream catchers,
Dispelling the blasphemy happening on the wall with obscene letters..
Yelling at what’s happening as he read through those obscene letters,
Under the walls of dream catchers.

The Koran was spread out over the bible, of the Genesis and Disciples;
In denial of order, He believed in that possibility of him being suicidal.
He knew the real truth; in this haunted house lies the bodies of angels,
With fair hair and once smooth wings entangled, bent in shoddy angles.
They lay here in fear of being awakened, so they rest in shoddy angles,
The twisted bodies of His sad angels.

The harmonicas lay before him in a straight line in his peripheral vision,
With a crowbar in his calloused hands so he could uncover the hidden..
The floorboards lay before him, and he picked up one of his instruments,
Knowing the devious ways of Allah would not be once more tricking him.
The dead beat of the hearts resounding forever to try and go tricking him.
Silenced as he blew into an instrument.

The notes shot throughout the surrounding area, playing sweet harmony,
The capillaries leading throughout his bodies beginning their hardening.
The mansion shook and shivered, the wooden ground threw off splinters,
A decrepit stepping of feet resounding throughout the cold night winter,
A second helping of heat washing around the house to dispel the winter.
Snow pushed through floor splinters.

The mansion was now an oven, a stove steadily raising in its degrees,
But He took no heed as the heat steadily began to singe linen sheets.
He could see Allah’s nightmare senders being caught in dream catchers,
His efforts would not cease until he was reunited and again met her.
He would finally fall to His knees, eyes once more having met her….
Allah’s guardians caught in dream catchers.

Ah, and here he peers at a coffin made of jade, built for a pharaoh,
The power resonating from within this coffin shaking his very marrow.
The crowbar is cast away, the harmonicas bundled into a burlap sack,
And he leans over, reaching for the casket, ignoring creaks in his back,
The antediluvian child knows the moving of demons behind his back…
And shoulders his burlap sack.

Around him the candles burn endlessly, and he grabs his basket of wicker,
The thawed snow leaking into the mansion would be the building’s ichors…
An expression of complete satisfaction crosses throughout his appearance,
And he looks at the tomb that holds the location of his own former parents.
It is very apparent he was from the womb of perhaps, neglectful parents,
Who’re reflected in his appearance.

One hand reaches to a latch and rips it open with an impressive force,
Yet his eyes could barely comprehend the shape of the expected corpse.
But there is his relief, it lays there with an awkward presence of the dark,
The stark shadow parked in the meadow of this capacious work of art,
Perhaps a refuge from the dark?

One hand falls into the twisting maelstrom that shouldn’t fit in the coffin,
And the thought that flits through his mind is the ironic casket’s mocking,
That something so dark can finally bring something purer then even Allah?
Something like the religions betwixt themselves to form the safe Valhalla.
Could this Spear of Longinus buried under this ancient church grant Valhalla?
Finally, is there peace? Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, my Allah.