only to learn about you

[mishtachio]

Imprint yourself upon me.

So deeply that even when the earth reclaims her son,
even when loam covers my fingers 
and the worms begin threading through my toes,
you are remembered.

Let the archaeologists come, 
with all their curiosity and tools to sift through my bones. 
There —beneath the wreckage of time— they will find your warmth, 
still burning in the marrow.

Let them press onto my shell,
and feel the aftershock—
the tremor of your hands still holding on.

Let my ribs arch out like olive branches,
their twisted wood still singing your song;
and each of my vertebrae still bearing the shadow of your lips.

Prints that even time,
with all its great erasers—
its winds and waters and centuries—
couldn’t quite ever undo.

Let them find me,
only to to learn about you.

[busker]

I like the tangible images that you have used through the poem. There’s a richness of imagery in every strophe.
It is too easy to make a poem on this topic a mass of abstractions but you have avoided that pitfall with great aplomb

Great going!!

[Quixilated]

Hello mishtachio, welcome to the Pigpen. We are always happy to see new members.

Please take a moment to read the site Rules.  All members must post feedback on other people's poems before posting a new poem.  For every new poem, corresponding feedback must be given.  Please take a moment to catch up. 

Thank you,
Quix/admin

[Mark A Becker]

well, the red pen has spoken.

Please stick around and slop in this pigpen with us.
Emphasis on with us- it's equal parts give 'n take here.

Welcome,
Mark

[carahmellow]

Imprint yourself upon me.

So deeply that even when the earth reclaims her son,
even when loam covers my fingers 
and the worms begin threading through my toes,
you are remembered.

Let the archaeologists come, 
with all their curiosity and tools to sift through my bones. 
There —beneath the wreckage of time— they will find your warmth, 
still burning in the marrow.

Let them press onto my shell,
and feel the aftershock—
the tremor of your hands still holding on.

Let my ribs arch out like olive branches,
their twisted wood still singing your song;
and each of my vertebrae still bearing the shadow of your lips.

Prints that even time,
with all its great erasers—
its winds and waters and centuries—
couldn’t quite ever undo.

Let them find me,
only to to learn about you.

This is one of those poems I'm really sad I didnt write... lol. I wouldn't change a thing. I absolutely love the imagery... its so creative, and the little sneaky unexpected rhymes are chefs kiss.