Paper

A plateau of pale white sand stretches across a desk.
The Sahara and The Valley of the Dead jointed together
know no boudaries as limitless as these.
The riches there shine and glitter brighter and longer than any gold on this Earth
and are more numerous than the grains of sand on a wave-crushed beach
or the blades of grass in your lawn.
Archaelogists travel and trek every day on the sands of this desert,
hunting for such treasures that would set the glory of the world aflame.
Many a livelihood has been toiled away in this barren wasteland
underneath the scorn and mercy of the Sun unrelenting,
the dry wind blowing time away like the sand.
The sand itself is the gold, the treasure, the answers.
The truth burns so brilliant it blinds the masses.
Few souls see past the light and
use this torch to beat back the ignorance like the devouring night.
Loot unearthed appears in shades of black and grey.
These sands are a monument to a tree's sacrifice to
fuel the fires of the minds that enlighten this world.