Ashes to Ashes*Dust has no tongue,
hasn't a song,
wields no pen,
no tools for building or carving,
scumbles no brushes
in maddening rhythms.
Dust does not long for nor aspire.
Dust lies in random arrangement,
drifts will-less though the cracks under doors,
accumulates behind the tassels of bedspreads,
in the dim beneath of things.
Dampened with a measure of tears,
pressed by hardship to a mold,
dust becomes brick,
paves the way,
shoulders a roof,
shatters plate glass with aplomb.
- Mad Mar Walker (Mistryel)
* published in heck I forget where
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