Precision and prowess is
clutched within the bowels
of the serapeum’s stone walls,
proud geometric boxes
of suspicious skill.
These six sided puzzles–
missed for countless eons,
labeled each a sarcophagus
without body or bull
to back that thesis up.
Laser like mathematics
stand as velvet to tools
now lost within this world,
while the walls are crude cut
above any suspicious marks.
Would an artist forget the roof
or a thief be after the bones?
What if the bulls never existed
and the granite was much older,
covered to simply protect it?
More on this topic in my poem: A Pharaohs Rise
The Poetry Of J.P. 