Dust.
The gritty taste,
Choking,
Dry as death,
The least of things.
Nothing.
The parched and silent place,
Hope pulverised.
All things we hold
Come down to this
Blown from our fingers
By relentless wind.
Even tears
Evaporate.
And dry lips stick together
Without sound.
And this we must remember,
This,
Hold close:
The agony of emptiness,
The cruel breath of the
grave,
The swiftness of forgetting,
The long undoing of the very
self.
All that there is
Resounding
In the dust-dry deserts of
our night.
Remember too
This death leads on to Life
1 comment:
Great read, thank you.
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