Dust
It’s the thought, the murmur, the whisper,
The sound hanging on an ocean wind.
Time is once again merciless, unforgiving,
Plans for tomorrow that will result in Dust.
Of a vision, a taste, a clasping hand,
Made tight to fight away our shame.
A pit so bright, so wide, so deep,
Fear of tomorrow that will become Dust
Mastering, an art, an illusion, a memory,
The sands of time are whipped by wind.
Fragrant the smell, I see on your face,
Race for tomorrow, the prize in Dust.
So, to face fear, of time, of space,
No end is visible from the edge.
Back broken, splintered by wood,
Hide from tomorrow, when we become dust.
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