Like the tailor's suit or the chef's meal, simplicity
signals the master. No coifs or vivid tinctures
brow the face that studied death, sure
in his craft. A clutched, worn tool, for humility
beneath the stitched rictus of his vesseled
prayer. A pupil perhaps, or a rival, performed
this task and, honoring what the master scorned,
urned him basely. With him terse was sealed
the knowledge of what little hope there is
in ritual-that private magic that makes symbols
of things. Neither can we extract balms
from edicts that Illusion, by reason, is all that is.
Even shadows lunge at this leathered state,
crouched in clay, pretending no better fate.
The Mummifier's Mummy by Ricardo Pau-Llosa | Pink Peony Reed Diffuser
$20.00Price
