Some sorrows breathe heavily
through bone, blood, and bellies
of time, across countless souls,
from innumerable furrowed lips;
they leave a sacred remnant,
a visceral fear that echoes from
the terrified ache in our teeth to
the fitful churn in our stomachs.
We cannot possibly remember
the sickly vibrant hues of worn
sand, sinking leaves, and mottled
feathers that rivaled the stars
in light, nor have heard the guttural
cries–the weeping, catching breaths–
of parchment as it shriveled, lungs made
decrepit, or papyrus as it weltered.
Yet something inexplicable in us
raged when we first found the tale
of mislaid wisdom; lamented through
a weighted chest and the inkling
–the barest remembrance–that
the knowledge was not new.