One day,
we will regret
how we never tried
this feeling to be great.
For no one will uncover it
a hundred years from now
like the ancient civilization of Egypt.
No one will be awed
by our stories told
because what we built
was a pyramid.
Block by block,
we put and pile
not for us to dwell in, no,
but a place for death to lay
because we like to celebrate the end
and mystify things into ghosts.
Only us knew
why we bothered building it;
a landmark,
a memory,
a resting place,
of a love once consumed
whatever it is.
Until time makes it ancient,
make it a riddle.
Then even us wont understand now
why it's there.
