like an iron shroud

like an iron shroud whose success lay in falling, a falling over, a collapse not to be undone or roused from, not a magickal sleep, but a curse nonetheless, of that which cannot be fixed or restored. We can point to the strength of the shadow cast, the crushing weight, the lack of breath, the injuries sustained in the fall, the mutilation and the amputations which follow, the inability to see the sun, as proof of vast power. A function of misappropriation, of pointing and naming the incorrect object, only the proximate cause, making a cult from a corpse, priests out of those we assume to be necromancers, who are only stripping the body for parts. They do not and cannot command our loyalty, their regime an elaborate sleight-of-hand with one hand while the other hand holds you down or worse. The false necromancers feel that it is on us if we believed the lie, and they would be right. The corpse we are crushed by, that which rots atop us, was an abusive lover or parent or violent stranger at best. If we can pull ourselves, our wracked and heaving, bruised and maimed bodies out from under so as not to be absorbed into its corpse-mass, we should be able to see something else. What was stolen by the thieves, the false necromancers, was not what was valuable. Not the pocketwatches and the rings and the jewels and the infrastructure, but the energies and the nutrients unbound by the fall, powered through the rot. The constituent parts of the fallen, unshackled now, can return to the earth and rise again as something new, not just as one thing, but as many, contrary and divergent. Let us allow for this. Just because we cannot see the light from here does not mean the sun is gone.