Pyramids

Giza pales

there bleaching in the sun.

Not the first and not nearly the last.

Ancient temples and stacked stones to gods and people of the past.

We clamber over.

The base of skulls and poorer souls,

distinguished not from dirt.

Damn all creation

and its spheres.

We are made to build

Pyramids.

Cells are bricks, our lives the mortar.

Deeper than he instincts to nurture,

to consume and rear.

Our true core instructs.

Greater! Every greater constructs!

There must be more made lower

for the peak to rise.

Compounding at the bottom.

Spread, ye lowlings.

Be cultivated to poverty.

For the mass of you is needed as blocks.

Scramble o’re your kin

it simply pushes us taller.

As a child piles sand

every grain tumbling from innocent hands,

freed from the bounds of an hourglass,

its base shall ever grow.

Countless fold.

‘Fore the top should rise an inch.

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