Catacombic steps to nowhere like unto sandy loam in land of musty looms and amphoric pots of gloomy dark consumed by weedy heat of stale complacent air, the atmospheric dust with stench of rust, rope rot fray of desintegrate about this old pith helmet canvas in decay;
our descent into walled soft sand pictograph arrayed
decipherless to thwart the chiseled floor of grief
where broken rock of brief rectangle ridge displayed the place where corpse had been, our unholy feet sounding boot forth an echoless scrunch then turned about and up we squinted inclined to sun whose glary ray caught naught but crumbs of what looked like a tiny corner mound of shyly piled coffee grounds, minute and ancient trash untouched, all that remained of a tribe of sacred bugs once scared, blackened time-dismembered scarabs,
the longsought oft told beetle in brittle shimmer of smooth gold….

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