To My Dear Dust

It is hard, forgotten dust, to still this meaningful hand.
And though you had once a life, now you are dead.
There is not much to say, between you and I. Not much to write.
The words that sliced and pierced, tongues that pecked and punctured,
The wounds that bled away all signs of…
Things never uttered, things left forgotten, trapped behind our eyes.
For if you had known, the darken thoughts that crept about,
For if you had known the deeds that lovingly embraced me,
For if you had known, oh if you had known…
The lies upon lies from my mouth, that distorted your illusioned world
The truths so cleverly hidden.
And even the rain, could not, would not, dared not,
reveal your world as damaged and broken.
And still, this meaningful hand glides with unspoken words.
I do not know if you are happy.
I must admit, I hope you are not.
On that moonless night, in which the stars did not shine,
It was not your dear enemy who sought you out that night.
With dancing hunger, with dancing hunger, with dancing hunger,
I waited just right, in the shadows, in the trees, in the navy sky.
And there you stood, eyes wide open, body out of breath.
I watched you, hearing the rush of blood, the flutter of your heart.
And yes, it made me smile with with unbrittled glee.
That I, yes I, would finally devour what made me weak.
Your death was not that of an accident,
Nor that of a threat.
It was the death of one who would always die.
And so forgotten dust, there you shall stay,
Hidden in a glass jar, dull and empty.
Forgotten and alone—just as you feared.
And there I finish forgotten dust.
With this meaningless hand I shall stop my meaningless words.
After all, it all happened so long ago.


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