Cultist of Osiris, Reincarnated

He says he longs for the pyramids--

his eyes blue and cold like a glacier

with a stare just as harsh.

He swears he can crumple the plans of the universe in one fist,

make our bleak outlook a bright one

so confident, as if he stares down at each person from a balcony,

down at the city from a helicopter.

He absorbs my doubt, understands it, and turns it back on me.

Typical man.

There's a red indent around my wrist like a jellyfish sting where he grabbed it.

He can see fright wash over me

but loves it

as if awakening from his long slumber

to find his queen, wife, servant

waiting and wasting away for his return

while he slept soundly with his riches around him like a chipmunk and his nuts.

Meanwhile, time marched on

as it has a habit of doing

and similar to time

he has a habit

of staying the same--

more fossil than statue

somehow unchanged by the sands that threatened to erode him.

He stands unchanged with pride

the quotient of power divided by perfection

and I wonder

with millions who used to worship him

will he be content now

with just me?