Perhaps the artifact you unearthed
was waiting for you.
Perhaps not.
The ancient wraiths of your fathers bear witness
to your own thievery.
Doubtless, the dormant curses will
begin to manifest.
The sleeping souls of the past
stumble as they walk toward the light
they’ll never reach.
The old soil encrusting your stolen treasure
is crumbly with dreams, fertile with memories,
and yet, nothing grew.
The redolent scent of the earth’s loam
gives way
to an afterbirth of blood.
Perhaps the artifact will break your clutching fingers
and release itself.
Perhaps not.
BlackQuill 