(prompt from @theconstantpoet)
Plot twist. There are none.
My poems are buried deep within me,
layers of sediment and time
sealing them away
The shovel of my pen digs hard and aimlessly some days,
other days I bring out the soft brushes
when something fragile seems to be uncovering
You think you’ve discovered all of me,
turns out this is just a sliver of what exists
Just a fraction of all that I hold
And even if you discover it all,
you will still have questions.
Is this a metaphor or is this some sacred ritual?
Is this area holy ground or is this
a torture chamber in her own mind?
It’s dirty work -
the dust will find its way in places
on your body you didn’t know existed,
but some lines, some artifacts
will drop your jaw in wonder
and strike a chord in your heart
you didn’t know existed
Time held still in a way
to survive our short lived bodies
Artifacts left to pass on what was
These aren’t just objects to remember,
This isn’t just ink stored on a page,
but fragments of souls lived on through elements
that leave you with more questions than answers
That’s how poets and archaeologists are the same
Seekers aiming to find the truth
Leaving more mystery behind
Than answers for what could be
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