Awbrey Collins

Canopic Jars

| Just grunting, no dialogue |

Cinderous cones burn pink, for straightening lines in vividous light. The desert mirage can be quite deceiving. The darkness, revealing. A cooling of blue flames settles against the confusion, are the likes for the deeper burning questions within an impenetrable clean room. These are the ethers of the time period, and the only way to be sure, in the final burning, the difference between what was a clean room and what is a burial chamber. The body of God, clean and washed, its inhabitant long gone. The God’s look over the shoulders of younger draconians whose fathers are painting the final touch-up into tomb hieroglyphics. A seer is eyeing each bandage – the slow and arduous work of preparations for the after-life take place. Here, Venus shines through the day as if it will approach Vega in tears, by the frightening sight of a funeral procession. The tomb is no place for worship, but certainly a place where some draconic prayers are answered.

The cylinders, resting amid supporting triangles, cut by a Pharoah whose servants seal out the light beneath a red rhombus which reunites Africa. The long pointed triangles represent the food chain, where lion is above the insects below, and enshrine the circle of life. The prophetic vision, from circadian rhythm to lion’s roar, these men work in a pit of lazarus and are what gives their civic duties its religious recognition. It is not practical to take chances with reusing the process with Ra, or the others. It is mortal, a temptation of the sacrilegious fruits of the followers who seem to believe in the kind-spirited soul of a child which still rests beneath. The spherical beads in the head of the seer are pearlescent, and the muscles of the eye are hidden like a pearl within a clam. A reward of the drawing moon, closer to turning orange twice in one year, over the shoulders of the emblamer like a work light. Their peace a star light. Their work was divine, and it held little outside influence. The black wrath of the quick hands at work, where would be work of keeping peace falls to the shoulders of message boys and nubian general’s sons; should soon solemn dare to break from their craft.

Now, something new was to be called evil. What ‘good-fight’ should have a name of equal without a living, no necrotic eye of Horus? The gold glimmers of dreams went extinct in a dark room of cascading visions and stench. Sealed wishes are the desire, for a first time at escape, the archaic works whose illustrious beauty of green and gold pass the living as living in an afterworld. A time when Bast can escape the deep blue and purples for a view of the farmland. For some, the burning hot, orange of the desert sky is a time without work, and when food is cheap. The hunt. The slumber. The floods are at bay. These chambers were never built to pass life at the after life, and anything that would escape, a conspiracy, a dispute, would be the belief for war. The colour of craft is not a reward, but the riches of an empire. Evil’s blackness is something coveted by mysteries unraveled. Secrets that hiss like cobras with venom behind fangs spawned in self-righteous pairs.

War against religion, against society; an appreciation of just eye marking the unwritten rules from a nameless God. The name the body was given is escaped in elucidating the cimplicity of the hieroglyphs. Well timed, for sakes of organization, fulfilling the cannon of marriage and spirited traditions based upon Pharaoh’s life. Family know not binds with Pharaoh’s secrets and are confined to working; therefore, revenge has no reach the length of life after death. Only pink, blue and red; that the orange hue seems firmament. The pink is the color in the darkness, the thinnest of bloods breeding hate for tradition when not put to good use. The stronger families can draw water from the desert, arid air. They continue the work, washing their eyes, beneath these masks these men are without a pause. Peering through the slits in these masks, these eyes, they see the red hands of the seer that break through the pink haze in the dim tomb light. The seer holds a rhythmic work meditation that will guide them back towards the moon, when left behind by the North Star passing Orion’s triangulation. Moon cycles are longer to calculate: the fourteenth day of each year; the third year; and, the fifth, sixth, then seventh months of the marked year. Self sacrifice, a force to be taken aback, by the labors done on course. On time, in sync with the foreseeable end; and, so few plans made for an afterlife. Comparing the dracons and nubians, the eclipse is not a magic trick, it is a contradiction.

The reign: a works of made hierarchy once just. To hold each glyph to its meaning, more craftsment, more taxes. A debt well beyond payment of gold or silver pieces stamped by the Ptolemies with Alexandria’s face. The male judge versus blind lady justice is less a contradiction and more of a euphemism. A joke to step out into the streets of plague. A healthier state is born. Rashness has yet to account for the tax and burden for making many new craftsmen, a time without walls or borders. Possibilities are endless. The territory of many sunning days, now the hour-less soaking of hands in brine. The silence is unpracticed, but soaks up the ringing of pink sound, in the ears, like the soft touch of a woman against the skin. The instincts are a differing vision which was born from the mask of gold.

A light, that burns hot with encrusted outlines about the eyes of a gold sarcophagus, appears to the living the dead are watching. Up ended at the wall and supported by its own weight, masks work as counterbalance to the process of removing all signs of life from the body. Keeping the enchantment from allowing a single curse from touching the divine corpse, it is an easier task to cast these debts within the short time where instincts allow the draconian discontent to flare. Cubed by the seer at gurdian of the entrance, now working with the eight sided rhombus to found a meridian. A task of both balance, and judgment. The insights that blue the confusion are the only byproduct that must be given to the new faces of the slaves of Africa. A more memorable darkness, that is drowning, is creeping up the steep slants that spelled a different time between the busy legs. They were beneath the southern hemisphere, and under a constant flow.

Importing a priority whereof silence is but anything more than to be left with the ka, in the realm of the spirit where it was borne. Meditations of the heart are vandalous mistruths of the mind. The soul and the spirit draw the faint line mortals describe as prophecy and vision. What course their hands could make important of this task, and their generations they could make disgrace. Work continues, however outside a second counter balance has begun. Egyptian troops begin to ritualize a freedom they never worked to enfore, nor understand. Few are skilled, and the civil unrest grew each year like a flood. Taking to a street what is learned would soon be theirs, and starting a thuggish life they knew was yet to come. A facade for learning they think they can escape. One that is indeed taught by blade and arrow tip. The light is racing up towards Horus. It will scatter the stars. The clouds of the universe will reflect the waters of the earth and the earth will become black, without light.

Dry cloth is then like finished pots, for sale and filled with God’s harvest. Ink on reed, crafted on stone tablets and marking the coming of beauty out of mountains of mirth. Their work continues. A stone tablet first inscribes a first word that was spoken. The words were not written by a scribe, not in hieroglyph and not in sanskrit. Half-hebrew half sumerian, the first bables of a child who would learn to deal in injustice, and watch to welcome kings into the kingdom of heaven. Listless with the prides of gentry and makers of words for dealings. Taxes do carry their death and a saying that should be respected to the same tinted hue for future queens to leave in their place. A communal guest reveals to the crowd the coming of a king. Little will always be said in the finalizing portion for the final nesting, as was decided and carried out. The ka, mixing with voodoo, somehow producing gold. Perhaps a vision of who is believed lays, now, nested within the sarcophagus. Drying the sweetest wines, the seers decide where soon generals meet to carry-out the will, but not everyone has to agree. The brandished of inebriations can spoil a simple magic trick.

The nubian hand at sabotage is in speaking tongues which tie like ropes for future stuck out necks, and stretched tales of payment for deeds done. Passing red judgments over their clothing is nothing kin to flooding turned the blood red by men, women and children. Loyalty is a covet and fealty is a malice; but, below that homage can finally be grace. Their name, “of kings”, cracks and shatters like stone tablets. Begin the Iconoclasm, the panic to save what they knew not they were doing. There was never meant to be a government, just love. Respect and expectation which once would have coexist, now charged to the living by religious practice, or recollection by poetry and songs or beats. Sacrificial intoxication rips the beauty from mothers, the worst of soricide! Queens are made to pay homage to, while some women are simply made beautiful before they are raped and ravaged in the streets. Cleopatran parables are a duo, a pagan belief before a occult belief. Fables makes better heros, better lovers, and better fathers and mothers.

Noticing the streets that have broken from the blidness of justice, the truth of horatian poetry is indeed a magic of astrology. The arrow of cupid will either strike true or through its victim, and the Sphinx will be the only mother you ever knew. The lucretian poetry is not a time to test the theatre, and the faces of prophecy we imagine are in a cherished glade of happiness. Truly, they were born on the faces filled with tears. There is no practice more than to propagandize the coliseum, and desensitize the blood lust. The thought of readying yourself for when brothers turn on brothers is not the work of the Gods, tis a magic of evil. The spite at a sight for the righteous to cloak the dead of night with betrayal only keeps her temptations stronger than hope to make from fear. Her praying never seems to quiet for long after the use of the clean room. They fear she went to be angry… alone.

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