Book of the Dead

[Jackson LaCroix]

500 A.V.

The rain drenched it’s obsidian sanctuary in the cleanse of refreshment. Steam from the passage of humidity layered the phantasms of translucent deer in an untouchable preservation. Smoke over mercury laden reflections lapped at the thighs of a wet drifter while the storm’s attention buzzed rain drops over chiseled blocks of naked skin and soaked threads. His eyes stared blankly like a desert animal onto the enclave ahead. Lambent ghosts pandered through island trails like déjà-vu, but the water tasted cold and tender. The rover had killed a man with a stone. Left him face down in a rocky puddle so the oil of blood slipped over the water’s surface uneasily. Thunder migrated rolling clouds against his shoulder blades and ribs without oasis.

He still gripped the weapon unable to recognize the white culmination of a heavy release. Emotions layered under obsession and fury now opened like a bone cage triptych to show his contracting lungs and beating red artery. Shaking, the man dropped the cracked stone. As it’s weight hit the skin of the ocean spill something deep shook the frozen fountain of his mind. It’s metaphoric wood knocker echoing like the drowned dog he was. Killing for ritual or pleasure, money or revenge. Living here in the afterthought of another’s end was far emptier then compulsion. Floating without berth, the enlightenment of survival slandered his drenched lips. It was time to climb this shore to the isle of the dormant and find the secret that he could not steal in life.