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Paul Idiaghe Apr 2021
I am ready
to ring your rib

around my wrist
in triumph—

the faintest of relics    
enliven me. My lips

still layered
as in the night you lost them.

I hope to hammer  
your heart

& stuff its soil
in the sutures

of your skull;
I want to call that

the shadow to
kintsugi;

I want our memories never
to seep; to set

them up for decryption.
Unloving is a study—

consider an archaeologist’s
tentative hands

demystifying an artifact
once treasured for its secret

& leaving no spots
behind.
written after Kevin Young’s poem on the same title
photovoltaic Feb 2021
i wish the world was still an adventure
step through the portal, in search of new worlds
to make fresh memories with old friends

now i stare at the treasures ive collected over the years
rusted and broken, clockwork falling apart, blade dull
legacy of once glorious days.
adventure, JJD
i miss you, and the life we created together
photovoltaic Dec 2020
Flicker, flicker to the patter of the rain
So fragile, desperate to live, the tiny little flame
Long shadows cast onto the stone wall behind
Lighting up the writings, the words on the walls
Describing the anthem of a nation forgotten
Sole legacy of once glorious days
i  d o n t  k n o w  w h a t  i m  d o i n g  h e l p
the rhyming was not intentional i mean i just realized when publishing it ****
l'manburg-
jdm Mar 2020
Observe a masterpiece the lonely relic
foreshadowing judgment eclipsed despair.
Hanging disappointed, art held ransom,
childish tantrum freely shared.
Refrain, restrain, what some condemn,
reluctance alleviates anxiety gained.
A musical symphony, poetic warfare,
so let me gently remind you, friend;
Even at last gasping breath
I am fiercely lethal with my creative pen.
JDMaraccini
2020
You can hear them if you listen
When the wind blows in the night
The people who once lived here
Who are gone now, out of sight

The buildings, many shuttered
Housed ten thousand at it's peak
Now empty, vacant, skeltons
Once vibrant, now, so bleak

Silver once was mined nearby
Thousands flocked here for the chance
To strike it rich, be wealthy
Uninvited to the dance

For all that comes with promise
The devil comes as well
With money comes temptations
As the small town starts to swell

Business and homesteads
Spring up where once was none
Lawlessness is rampant
The law is by the gun

Saloons, hotels, and harlots
Soapbox preachers, grab your purse
We all cannot be winners
That is just the boom towns curse

Like a zephyr in the desert
A boom town changes in a flash
Prosperity will vanish
And so does all the cash

The boom town dies as quickly
As a flower in the snow
Scattered now back homeward
With nothing left to show

The earth takes all she's given
The buildings may still stand
But, the mines are all now empty
There's no value to this land

Listen to the voices
The wind let's them sing out
You can hear them in the darkness
That's when the locals all come out

A ghost town is a relic
It shows the best and worst of man
So, listen to the wind now
Hear their stories if you can
Shubham Kamble Apr 2018
Urn
who'll hold your memories
recite them like a fabled story
a land
where you held hands
leaving a long trail under infinite sky?

who'll hold your urn
enshrine it as a priceless relic
when you exile
far far away
where heaven is called a home ?
Brittney T Feb 2018
Finding stolen jackets in my room
catches me off-guard
"Oh! hello cozy reminder of
the boy that toyed with my heart.
I forgot I stuffed you
in this corner of my drawer..."



I don't want them, really.
But I can't bring myself to throw them away.
Or give them back.
I know I should keep them.
These were priceless at one point;
they feel like intruders in my life now.



But sometimes it snows.

Then I can see the warmth those reminders
once provided.
I pull on layers of memories
to have a snowball fight
with my sisters.
I reuse. I reframe.

Which is all we can do
With relics of our pain.

We apply what we've learned,
From pain, to our lives;
We wear these lessons
Like jackets.
We grow.
Pain is only a teacher
that can aid us now

if we let it.
Writing this helped me understand why I hang on to things that hurt.
Vexren4000 Mar 2017
There is a longing for the infatuation of teenage years,
Of being able to look around the world and feel free,
Of having friends come easier than enemies.
Of being young and having time.
Now that man has aged,
Into a lone member of the workforce,
No longer a moon-faced innocent child.
Now a haggard and ragged face,
Staring past the present into a future,
He has worked away his whole life to possibly have.
Yet, when he arrives there, He will be an ancient relic.
Of the child, he used to be.

©BAS
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