Old

After fate untwisted,
she left a trail of
disastrous death in my driveway.

I need an incantation
to summon the voice in my
hands.

Sprawled lazily across
the concrete,
hieroglyphics bleeding
with age.
I drew them.

My people ran down
the lane years ago
to hunt the sneaky beast.
I am the only one left,
struggling to clutch my ochre
with broken hands.

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