Treasure hunter's madness; a lost unkempt fury
That torments once sane minds to revel in the theory of the chase-
Once strong men, now leveled at the sight of it,
A long-winded soliloquy:
Have their hopes dissected in autopsy
And ultimately, surgically...removed.
We feel right for chasing dreams, but what seems
Like the very aspect of innocence is a dead body
Mauled by some bears a bit too accustomed to Time.
Man wages wars with calloused hands,
Because heat, blood, and sweat mix till corroding.
In it's defense, this body forges armor
That only goes soft in the comforts of dull times.
My hands feel like brick, in the sparked moment
Of spontaneous adaptation.
An Anomaly, that I can be,
Has become the very face I can't help but to wear.
For we were madmen to leap forth and attempt to claim
What was lost to dust and gravity...
The curse of romanticism made sure
That...we didn't stand a chance.
So...
A dead man holds a dead weight
In the middle of a gold mine.
Had he the mind to look up for a second-
His misery would there on...persist.