Dust

I sit on a couch not much older than I

as I bask in the warmth that shines

through a window.

​

Made visible by light,

particles of dust float like birds

in flight

And I long to join them.

​

To become a particle of dust, or a bird,

I am not sure.

For birds still have their daily drama;

Who gets the worm

  and such

And I long to float in the nothingness

Held within that of dust.

Only drifting here and there.

Like the child a mother has

  yet to bare

How are we sure there is an

afterlife

if there is none

before?

​

From dust I have come,

and to dust I shall return.

​

I suppose I have recieved my wish.

​