Planted on the cool, white surface of my fireplace, Flanked by Buddha and silvery curtains of Honesty. A place for objects of no utility, there it sits. A chameleon creature, curled around all objects and all things, Avoiding eye contact.
Handed to me by my father, as we stood on Giza's yielding sands, He closed my five-year-old fingers around its uncomfortable edges, As if a Horus high priest, Punching through the hardest of hearts.
Then, life was simple. And endless. Belief was easy and truth, sacred. Magic was human and as far reaching as the desert.
A piece of the Pyramids, Whispering to myself. I wait until it's ready to come to life and explain itself, Unlocking its secrets with the gentle persuasion of compression and release.
A fractured corner of one immoveable whole, Jigsawed with others of its kind, Reaching from the ground to the stars, Heavy, cold and irreversible .