And the momentum
decapitates the fears of our childhood
as newer, stronger beings are made
from the dust that accentuates
our pores and molds our potential viscera.
The aficiandos of our beings, the antecedents of our dirty games
follow us, piling on the dust.
May we grow higher still?
As centrifugal tendencies push us away
from our previous flesh.
Convoluted plans to make this world cleaner
by making man dirtier.
The masochistic yet smarter children drown
themselves in sand of their own volition in order to be like me.
The eyes and ears grow obsolescent and fade to greater dust.
It is indubitable, this world will be cleansed of lesser things.
Yet the act was disingenuous
and now, jaded by dirt, we fall to turn into the dust with our ancestors.
We cleansed the earth.
We died.