I stand beneath the weight of stone and time,
a pyramid rising, majestic yet shy.
They say the ancients built with their blood,
a dowry of labor cast in sun-baked clay—
each brick a breath, a tale left to weave,
while shadows dance, they bury their sighs.
Every layer screams of sacrifice and longing.
Yet the summit remains just a ghost of hope,
billowing clouds trapped in a frame of despair,
waiting for eyes that no longer look up,
parked in the mundane, forgetting the climb.
Lungs full of dreams, yet we spin in the grind,
scaffolding our lives with remnants of fear,
fingernail scratches etched on the surface,
clowns to our stories, obscuring the truth.
Every layer screams of sacrifice and longing.
What if we chipped away at the stone of doubt?
With soft whispers, we could carve a new path,
embellishing each moment, weaving it tight
into pyramids of shared laughter and light.
Dude, we are builders, not just remnants of time—
let’s tear down the silence, rise to the sky.
Every layer screams of sacrifice and longing.
M.A.D. Works 