Two scarabs, we …
hurtling through the universe.
On a collision course, I've yet to decide
is a blessing … or a curse.

You preferred Rubber
and I, the Revolver.
You, ever cryptic
and I, problem solver.

Between us …
so, so many syncronicites.
I … would try my best to be a rock.
You … relished in duplicities.

The essence of these …
born in your youth, a precious defense mechanism.
Still … I always admired your noble quest
for that ever elusive perfectionism.

Two Scarabs, we … both carved from precious stone.
Restless souls, forever seeking shelter.
Roaming through time … reckless … wild ...
our lives, whirling 'round … slippery … helter skelter.

But yours, made of of rubber …
mine, made of steel …
each with our reasons, bounced off of one another …
offering nothing for the other to feel.

I'll watch for you, while saying my prayers …
out there … on the sands.
Maybe next time, with the blessing of Ra, it won't fall away …
like these grains, slipping through our hands.

Two scarabs, we …
on an infinite collision course …
while forever hurtling through the universe.
A blessing that, this time … sad as it is …
somehow, came to feel like a curse.