Hieroglyphs on my ancient soul foretell the end of me, they say I'll die by my own hand when I’ve reached god status and every knee has knelt before me and I have nothing left to achieve. This prophecy has been written on me for many lives each ended by a pill, bullet, or brilliance — I can feel it. My fingers are my slaves who type a pyramid of words that'll hide my body in a maze of *****-trapped metaphors that no thief would ever dare explore. So shut me away with my mummified poetry so the gods in the next life will worship me. Let me hold the empty orange bottle like a rosary in chalky hands folded stiff into forced prayer. Let me rot away and be forgotten while my poetic pyramids stand for thousands of years in the sun. Let tourists stand under their shadows in awe while my bones turn slowly to dust somewhere deep in the chambers of their brilliance.