The invisible hand bestowed to Ham a bloody heirloom, cracked and crimson,
bleak and effervescent in the low radiate of a Summers smolder.
A voice broke the sky in half telling of the Great Fire,
an insurrection born ten eons lost to the past, and casting wickedness,
buried the remnants of a swollen fruit.
We have inherited this burial
One obliged by a ghostly procession,
the garb of a blushing corpse pulled taught by an aged seamstress.
Ominous and black, overseers scour the valley,
dragging animal bones across the slabs of silt and marble
Graves sprout and are marked with branches,
built upon by blind Neanderthals dancing through the basin,
spinning off the hands of a broken clock...
-The heir apparent, Prince, a gentle and bold boy walks upon thorns in Oakland,
these bonds born of ancient incantation.
Spellbound and intoxicated, he falls to his ashy knees and remains silent.
His being of course the unspeakable honesty of void.
Seen only through the pooling of Blood,
it drips from his cracked lips and forms and oasis for his bare-naked body,
Basking in the company of self
His is reflective, always in tandem,
a rudiment way of walking, with this weight inherited.