With Dust then Nothing

a poem

And I think of him every day,

sitting at my school day desk,

while white and blue chalk cut,

across the board, dust floating.


In my room, three decades strong,

gathered from dust, now manifest,

his heart beating, voice wavering,

stuttering syntax, speech stitched.


Ever present, reminding me of dust,

and inevitable demise, sudden,

darkness upon darkness bends,

into coarse textures imitating life.


Still, thinking of him, inhaling,

my life, devouring seconds,

minutes, hours, days and years,

cascading into grotesque fury.


So, anger mounts feverishly,

pitching with disappointment,

while he cradles my time eternal,

but I dare question his father.


Where the end is nothing,

and fragments splintered,

into reels of life’s multitude,

spent worshipping the lord of nothing.


Grinning, he sits on the fence,

spying me, reminding me,

talons crossed over my bones.

His patience calm, as I drift to dust.


Oh beauty, beauty and fright!

So charitable is his finality, present.

Knowing he is everything and complete,

after him is borne nothing – nothing.


No love, no God, no light,

but absence of all things,

fading into dust and darkness,

the faithless concept of him.


And all will end,

with dust, then nothing.

The End

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