Monday, April 15, 2013


The fine particulate that
covered Miss Havisham’s
wedding feast table.
The microscopic remains
of skin, hair and the
remnants of a forming

A light layer of us and
others floating through
the air and settling on
dressers and end tables,
desks and TV screens,
on the unused items
of our lives.

It covers everything and
reminds me that everything
is everything, and everything is
made of the same basic
The dust is me.
The dust is you.

There’s always more of
it than you realize. A day
spent dusting and cleaning
is so quickly forgotten as new
levels of dust immediately
start to settle over the contents
of our lives.

It’s grit, it’s dirt, it’s grime,
it’s all the same and will
rapidly build on inactivity and
It builds on memories.
It builds on lost hopes.

It builds on me,
collecting ever so slightly,
over time,
until the weight is colossal
and pushes me down.

I need a good and
proper dusting from
caring hands and
adoring eyes to find
the luster under the
ever finer particles
of everyone. 

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