Around time scarred columns,
Sun bleached waves swell.
No songs or poems
Can say
What these weathered walls tell.

i stand here with a hole in my chest. someone unearthed the key and dug up all the rest, their grimy hands
scratching and scraping into the dark. Unsure of what they'll find, but they wouldn't mind
leaving the tomb with a few
antiques,
maybe one or two.

i wish they bagged my soul with them.
it's rusting itself blue.

If my skillet's unearthed
Some long time on
By somethings human,
They'd need a rune
To reveal the smells
Of Sunday breakfast,
The sizzles and grizzles
Of that relic.
It won't explain
What's to blame,
From first fire,
To my frying pan.