The Lover, Pharaoh & Isis

The Lover, Pharaoh & Isis  by Khari D. Hawke It’s like an oozing wound, some of it is infection and some of it is essential fluid mixed in with the necessity of having to sacrifice vitality, and yet it lingers on…  It’s good and it’s bad, it’s sacred and taboo co-occurring in synchronizing melodic rhythms that resound to my audible faculties, my physiological sensibilities and my interior balconies.  I am having my own private concert as the wind fosters the hypnotic beats into the cauldrons of my spirit. I here the repetition of passion as the words glide over my solitude the continuation of ecstatic vibrations continue as a nostalgic recollection invades my psyche, it consoles me in the morning and ministers at night.  I’m transcended to places that excluded Eurocentric dress codes and western philosophies of supposedly proper, civilized apparel.  I saw the daughter of Isis; she bore the silken elegance of an earthen frame with golden threads draped over her twine rotoundish regalities, she moved with the sultriness of a serpent and the grace of the sun as it passes into night.  She turned and her voluptuous frame appeared like a long smooth road connected to an embedded stone with two perfectly smooth sides that had been kissed by the timeless flow of the Nile. She spoke with soft, supple tones and amber eyes, she touched my horizontal with her hands and my vertical with her soul and we collided at their meeting point, the exploration caused for time to seem as if it were a frozen entity.  While connected to my being she spoke of envisioning the brilliance of the moon’s radiance and other solar complexities that were beyond our immediate environment,  I told her I felt her command the Nile rise to saturation and fall to precision  She, the daughter of Isis turned and kissed our son and praised his blackness  I adored her even more intently than before.  As she slept the wound oozed, my wound sacred and taboo,  I attempted to ignore but eventually continued in gravitation towards Pharaoh’s tombs until I reached his bedchambers and I resumed as my interior balconies descended to his exterior structures, and I lay entrenched and amused,  She, the daughter of Isis is sleep and has no clue.  Because in all the radiant moons, the daughter of Isis, could never love me the way Pharaoh does.