Dusted archives & vaulted remains
"Circa 324" reads the stone tablet,
Behold the emperor, retold his sonnet,
Daggers down, stood the warrior poised,
Deciphers the curator, his voice bruised.
The armour, a thousand smelten ingots,
Inlaid rings, motifs of his strife in knots,
Golden coffers, his iron throne proclaimed;
Soiled sandals and territories claimed.
" Salve!" i count the plums on the porcelain,
" Salve!" i gaze at the peony tapering within,
" Salve. quid vis?" I turn, yammering unbridled,
The brass casket to the left spiralled,
"11:11" the ticking ancient dial reads,
Leaving the museum, bemused, i tread.
Fastening the window, i draw the shades on;
For tis blinding light, flashes upon,
Due past 10 days, warns the withered card,
I alight the stairs to the library, jarred.
I turn-in the card, its dues unpaid,
" Salve, salve!" the calls deluge,
Down the aisle of the scrolls refuge,
Dusted runes, i read the chronicles dismayed.
" Salve, salve" the calls reverberate,
Quivering, i unroll the sealed scroll,
Someone seizes my hand, tugging in control,
Alarmed i dart across, my eyes dilate.
The ceiling transmutes, the skies testify,
Twilight, the skylarks & swallows fly,
Clouded up above, the moon's grin,
Leaves the way for parade, chariots in,
Gaping, i smack my wrist crimson,
Startled, the horses rear up and halt,
The emperor & empress glance, guards risen.
Swiftly, curator slams the scroll & rolls,
Unfazed, yanks me out & censures,
" lady, do not venture the forbidden vaults,
Lest by heavens ordain, you shall remain,
In history's shackles, fettered rein."
I tread back to my room, muddled,
Unbolting the door, clearly befuddled,
The tea brews, "It's 12" the clock cuckoos,
I gaze aloft the sky, the heavens virtues,
The moon ascends the stairs ov'r the stars,
Beyond the cursed tombs, travails & scars.
I fill the rusted inkpen's cartridge,
For tonight, the ink's treads, rushed,
Stains the paper, crimson flushed,
Of the archives & chronicles unhushed.
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