Mummy

1.
The queen
dies.

The ancient white storm eclipses
colors on the horizon.

Who will come rejoicing
from behind those clouds

to see the coronation
of the new monarch, 

to come holding up the past
as proper future?

2.
Some of those who’ve been
struggling under that storm

for so long must now and then 
dream of the mummified queen 

on display in one
of their museums.

It’s not hard
to imagine the long lines 

of the curious, wringing wet
as they come in from the storm,

filing past the case
she’s in, whispering 

that they’d like to touch it
just to be certain.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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