Memories are the summit of all Pyramids

I have learned to posture my body as a temple of silence to withstand the violence of grief.

Everything dissolves in water except for the taste of burden- sweat: a liquid reminder of hell.

I am less concerned about my breathing than the thumping of heartbeats that refuse to stay still in the silent cathedral of my chest.

There is a way the body prepares itself for eternal silence without notifying the eyes. Plain Shroud. Minsk. Ablution. The body is set for the east.

Tears run; the wall of these eyes stood still. In the end, memories are the summit of all Pyramids.