My poetic side

The archeaologist scrapes the ground
 looking, for hidden yesterdays.
Ephemera of life. the insignificant
coins and bones, a picture to assemble.
 Shards of pottery like a mosaic.
Gleaned from the grave, where they have laid
to find a form, catalogued,
however small or large.
After detailed study
they emerge renewed
reborn into today.
In a sterile case and on display
and so shall be the scraping
nothing much to see.
From dirt and dust will come my worth
and reclaim my DNA.
To shine again like a polished pin
and Join the fabric of society
As from our past, we all must learn
jigsaws assembled, again each piece,
bones wired for flesh.
Dirt scrubbed from beneath the nails.
Buff your shoes till you see your face.
A small termite trapped in amber
or the ancestor, a missing link to the giraffe
and each mounted on a plinth.
Discoveries displayed in ink

Written by slipalong
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