the rippled black flesh of the column flexes softly
lifting the mercenary ridges that hang like smog
and hide patient secrets far above the polished tile

the cold prayers of the dead echo
to obsidian windows stained with ash

the coffin sleeps in the pale halo of the oculus
the mirrored slate mocking the mausoleum's dark focus
as it sends astral refractions to dance
on the grimy iron monoliths that flank the cell
their façades tattooed with precise angular etchings
whose significance has been scoured by time
'Death' is what they say now
'Death is inevitable'
'But it is calm'