Dust – A poem.

It bleeds through wicker—
dust in the sunbeams of windows.
It has devoured half the world
and I can only watch
from the patio where it has invaded
and swirls, eating through the furniture.

Beyond the hissing wall,
I catch glimpses of the naked earth—
stripped bare of green and sun.
everything is brown.

I am a speck.

Leaning against the cedar siding,
I watch as the vortex creeps.
It advances with a hunger
I once felt. Trapped.
Unable to push beyond
my current existence.
And the dust must feel the same.

That will never change.

But I know that it can.
So I remove my halo,
and walk into the storm
as it rips away everything
that I knew, that I was,
that I am.

As it devours me,
I can feel the slightest shift—
the gentle laughter
of a breeze.


Halo – A poem.

I sit on the porch
for hours, watching clouds
and sun dip to touch
the peaks of houses
and give halos to everyone
that walks past.

But in a wicker chair
I don’t have a halo.
I am a casual observer.
Thinking about
but never wandering about,
I pretend to write
about the world and
that I matter.

But I am a speck.
I am not better than anyone.
How can I be—
I never move.
Detached from the blur
of existence, I am
barely better than nothing.

And that will never change.

Never, unless I stand,
push away from the wicker
and walk out into the fading sun
so I can have a halo
of my own.


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