Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Feb 2019
The scarab sits atop its collected sphere
Wielding its mental sextant
It chases the sun
And it gives its life direction

Man sits atop the same
How we yearn for unreachable ideals
The gold of perfection
Ra, the sun

So scarab we aren't much different
We spend our lives with eyes fixed on the past
Blind to the future
We roll our cherished ***** into so many obstacles
Purely out of our condition
Strike the baring rock and become lost.

We climb back up on our ball
To find our golden god
And continue as if before
Our endless journey to find Tum
The **** always strikes the fan first.
Elm
Written by
Elm  20/M/The Moon
(20/M/The Moon)   
751
 
Please log in to view and add comments on poems