A Walk with a Zombie

If in my eyes the light is less,
Yours, Pharaoh, have not looked on loss
As mine have looked. Eyes over eyes,
The gold above the wood, their ooze
Below of sockets soaked in myrrh,
Make bright for you what heirs immure.

I, with my orbs of starting stone,
Half-bloodless shackle wounds, sustain
One blood unmummied: living wound
Of armless mills that mock the wind,
Of syruped words I cannot say,
Of bladed cane I cannot see.