The Tomb
 

Imagine the final moments, with everything prepared.
The stones painted and polished, the lamps in place,
All trimmed, burning, full of oil.
Fresh food and drink aside,
Best clothes laid out, special prayers said,
In the tomb.

Incense smoke drifting, scented and strong,
The last door sealed upon this scene by workmen,
Two thousand years older than the Christ.
The next eyes to witness this arranged homage,
Two thousand years younger than the Christ,
The body, in the tomb.

Wrapped and sealed, and sealed and wrapped,
Vital organs stored apart in jars, blessed and anointed,
Awaiting the call from the underworld.
Faintly, in the black, a distant trumpet sounds,
The great journey begins, guided by the Book of the Dead,
In the tomb.

Nourished by the food and drink,
Preserved by ancient unguents, ancient secrets,
Of Egypt and Mother Nile, flowing in life and death,
Older than them all, quenching all thirsts,
Touching all lives, ending all days,
In the tomb.

The lamps, in parody of life,
First burn brightly, using up the air in gulps.
The flame then lowers and glowers,
Finally dying for the want of oxygen.
Smoke escapes, drifting invisibly through the black room,
Never to be seen, in the tomb.

The scent of dead flame, never to be smelled,
Never to return, like the soul of the one,
Who is passing from this world to the next.
Journeying forever through an infinity of nothingness.
Lifeless oblivion,
In the tomb.