Unto the tomb, we brought Obsidian:
bound with his very own ropes---every limb;
bound by our meted justice, not mere whim;
bound both for cruelty and arrogance,
the true traits (so he said) of dominance
still unrepentant of what he had done.
Inside the tomb, we placed Obsidian:
and in his eyes we saw a mounting fear
(same as his slave girls must have felt); in here,
slow death would lead to quickened pits of hell
where worms that gnaw die not, and flames scorch well;
with no escape and nowhere left to run.
Outside the tomb, we sealed Obsidian
in---screaming at us, with his last, long glut
of cursing, as the wrought-iron doors swung shut
and then were locked. His voice would soon grow still
beside the girls interred there, by his will
dead---those whom he preyed on like carrion.
Leaving the tomb, we left Obsidian.
How many years ago?---oh, twenty-one.
Starward
