The charred, obsidian cylinder flaked
Ash if I touched it. Heavy as a stone,
It still showed fine, sedimentary lines
Like the rings of a petrified tree trunk
When viewed from either end. There was no way
To pry those lines apart, not the least bit.
Whatever words might have been inside it,
My only choice was to leave it alone
Or destroy it. I tried to imagine
My way through it, using x-ray vision,
Laser-like insight, solemn resonance.
I thought of all the divine names for life
That might cause it to unwind and reveal
Undead emotion. I wrote it myself.
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