Entombed

Down deep, 
down steep, dark tunnels I descend, 
till statue, scroll, or frieze appears. 
I scan the gilted images. 
Might each portent 
grand rites and mysteries 
as old as man? 
Behold a cat, a boat, 
a frozen scene of sacrifice, 
a priest in bird-faced cap. 
A coiled cobra, 
could that mean a Queen? 
Rebirth's a scarab? 
Life, a sandal strap? 
I've read how old reliefs 
can crumble, fade or rot 
from light of day 
and human breath. 
These works were wrought with hope 
to outlive death. 
They die 
by those who sought 
to give them aid. 
Just so, 
thought I would hoard them, 
yet it seems each dawn arrives 
to dissipate my dreams.