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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