Sculptors of Flesh

“The wasteland forever lay dead in the mourning mother’s arms, still and quiet and dreaming an endless sleep, like all good embraces instill. The mourning mother willed it to be that way and so for untold days and nights it was, and never would her child’s sepulcher be ground into dust by the exhales of age, for dark mathematics marinated in slaves’ blood bound the architecture and wrapped both space and time around its foundations by sheer decree of cruelty. The sun was brought down and destroyed, and its residue to this day paints the skies in a morrow that was never to arrive.

Yet, when the archbishop came, seven holy saints in tow, the mourning mother was struck down, and once her last drop of blood left her horrid body, the irrevocable grief that haunted this place became at last a vestige. It was granted to us, last remnants of Mortality, as a holy land- and to this day it remains our great bastion of refuge- of redemption. The sepulcher was dubbed then, The Tomb City- forever a reminder of our own duality, and its own; be it a tomb to days forgotten, or a womb of new beginning.”