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camps Feb 17
the flies drowned in the beads of sweat
rising to the occasion on my tired skin
the market felt particularly alive that day and
i tried my best to stand strong knowing
i reeked of foreigner

at the stall i traded two #2 pencils and a
pack of marlboro reds for a basket full of mangos
i asked for any item they were about to discard
and i got a notebook so old its paper
was painted yellow

the villagers told of a man who ruled at
the edge of reality in lands past life where
time was only marked by the lashes of a stinging sun
they said he knew how many grains of sand were
contained in the desert of the great beyond and
that he could throw dunes around like they were pebbles

no one is stupid enough to look for him they said
i'm stupid so i went

i trekked and trekked until trekking was no more
even the snakes and scarabs stopped at some point
the sand in my eyes sang songs to me and
every once in a while it turned my sight
into a searing kaleidoscope

i saw him in the distance he got farther away
with each step i took towards him
the winds spoke of a thousand suns laid to
rest each night of crumbling towers and of a
loneliness that stung sharp

i felt that way my skin now cracked
and my bones returning to the earth
i couldn’t even die knowing my minerals
would one day bloom for this place marked death
a solemn lonely death

a lifetime traversing so desolate a landscape
i could feel the longing in his breath and the
menacing laughter making me twice a fool
you insisted on looking for something he said
as if there was ever anything there
in my domain reflection is survival

i looked around but
there was no water to be found
Elm 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.
Jeff Gaines May 2018
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.
Ever feel like you have known someone through lifetimes?

— The End —