Dust of Dreams

August 14, 2008
By
Not even dust,
This stuff is too fine.
A ground, sifted powder
Flying free from the hands
That grasp it hungrily.
But to no avail, it seems.
It escapes through the tiny cracks
Of those weathered hands,
As one human’s sobs
Cut their way through the heavens.

Dreams reduced to nothing,
And even that nothing
Is flying away,
While the thunder cackles with evil glee
As salty tears enter the fray.

The wind ripping it from unwilling hands,
The world has faded,
Dripped away.
There is nothing left
But nothingness,
The lifeless grey shade
Of rot and decay.

All dream have been
Crushed to fine dust
By the wind,
And by the wind
Have been blown away.





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