Beneath the sun-scorched plains where legends carve their names,
A shadow falls, a crevice yawns, the earth begins its claims.
I, wanderer of epic tides, grip helm and spear in hand,
Descend the jagged stair of stone to probe this buried land.
The gates loom first, colossal wrought, of iron black and cold,
Engraved with tales of conquests vast, of triumphs stern and bold.
A king’s visage, unyielding, stares from friezes cracked by time,
His crown a jagged scar of gold, his voice a warlike chime.
Yet moss creeps soft through fissured stone, a whisper in the din,
As if the ruin mourns its weight, and what lies deep within.
Through corridors of shattered shields, I tread the hero’s path,
Past relics of a titan’s wrath, the echoes of his laugh.
Swords rusted red, their edges dulled, lie strewn in careless heaps,
A throne of marble, split in twain, where once a giant weeps.
The air grows thick with dust and dread, a labyrinthine sprawl,
Each turn reveals a monument, each stone a tale of thrall.
Deeper still, the walls give way to frescoes fierce and grand,
A warrior clad in lion’s pelt, a scepter in his hand.
He strides o’er fields of broken foes, his gaze a piercing flame,
The world bends low to kiss his feet and tremble at his name.
But shadows pool beneath his eyes, a flicker in the paint,
A crack runs through his gilded chest—his glory’s faint restraint.
The torchlight dims, the silence hums, I pass a crumbling bust,
Its brow once proud, now bowed in grief, dissolving into dust.
A spear impaled in granite gleams, a banner torn and frayed,
The spoils of wars he did not choose, the debts he never paid.
Through caverns vast, the echoes call, a hymn of might and woe,
Yet every step, the relics fade, their pomp begins to slow.
At last, a chasm yawns ahead, a bridge of bone and vine,
I cross the void where specters wail, their voices intertwine.
The dark recedes, a glow ignites, a sanctum soft and bare,
No armor gleams, no trumpets sound, just stillness in the air.
A child’s toy, a wooden bird, lies cracked upon the ground,
A woven cloth, threadbare and small, with tassels loosely bound.
And there, amidst the quiet ruin, a temple stands alone,
No pillars tall, no idols gleam, just walls of simple stone.
Upon the lintel, words are carved, but not of pomp or war.
Such gentle sentiment they share, yet rend me to my core:
“Welcome to the temple where my heart and soul reside.
Long ago, the two of them retreated here to hide.
“They are not responsible for building all of this.
All they ever wanted was a smile and a kiss.”
(This was created with prompts using Midjourney and Grok 3.)
spikosauropod 
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