85. My Father
My Father
I had never met him,
but I knew him from
the shape of his face and nose.
They were just like mine.
I resembled him
more than my mother.
Now he was nothing but a body
among hundreds of other
gigantic bodies.
He was drawn up against
the inner wall of the cavern
held by thick, adamantine chains.
His blood flowed into
the veins of the mountain,
and turned the whole of it
into the colour of ichor.
No one ever asked
what made the mountain
shine like it was gold.
No one dared.
Because no one
really wanted to know.
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