Dust

Descriptive voices get louder While likening dust to powder, Evangelizing ones in a sermon. Proclaiming it ‘A summon’ The prettily molded man is dust To all early and late –arriving corpses, a must, Worse dust, the one obsessed with lust. Metal too, correctly, is dust, As fatefully it goes ahead to rust Assembling some kind of crust, Sometimes into eyes blown by a gust And not seldom penetrating concealed bust. A rather competing dust Of as worthy trust Is silt Which leaves join when they wilt And trees after they have begun to tilt. Dust- A most mischievous thing: For its flights into eyes without a wing; In the ears not too good a ring And for hurting of our indulgent king.