Like Holy Days 

There are little words left in the mouth of this prophet. Hands are numb. Fingers have no feelings. I have succumbed to old age. And when I think of you. Of the past and the future that could of been. I realize. I know I could of loved and worshipped you like holidays, the holy days. In every way. Like archangels and the fallen. I could of. Would of. Should of never lost my way. Writing has been a mistress. You have been a love greater than Holy Spirits. Queen, I adorned you in regalia. Have etched you in history. They still call you goddess in the temples and churches. But they have forgotten the name your mothers tongue laid to your flesh. You have become grander than your shadow. I am here. In old age. Lost to dementia, medications only prolong the inevitable. I sit here. Sacrifice to Anubis for Thoth has forgotten my age. I have lived to long. My heart too heavy for scales. I write knowing to never see you again. To never taste the of your sweat, to never smell your flesh in heat. To never again be with you. My gods have not abandoned me. But I have abandoned myself. I have walked to deep in shadows to know the depth of light. I tell you. I worship you like holy days. And my gods have not once called me for exaltations. They know I’ve found writing from your bosom. From the sounds we’ve made through many moons. I write this as a thank you. As a worship for your glory. I lost you in youth and have aged against my own thoughts. I have not aged by calendar but by density. They told me to write this for you as sacrifice. I will always love you. I have always loved you. Queen, this is for your everything. 


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