Pyramid

Inner sanctuaries are born in broken hopes,
where windows lie and doors begin to fail.
I've gone off to Egypt again, my dear.
May I trade your forgiveness for exotic souvenirs?

Its littered stones lie cracked and baked in suns of gentle drift,
where winds (they pack their bags and come home again)
once gone, find nowhere to exist.
Noone to weep with, pining for an ancient society,
and once-immortal, incandescent seeds of life.

Indeed, a wise man once said Ozymandias still died,
though attempts were made to free him from his mortal coil,
Release the mind of all the world from fates of darkening soil.

Still, I say we rest our pity's hand upon his soul
wherever it may be.

To wash away his memories of a bloody sea would do
us all some good, set us a little free
from each our tombs, peaked realms of death
pointed towards indifferent skies.