We are made of dust, yet we hate the dust.
The hypocritical stays in the little atom of the brain.
They know only the ways of their ways in knowledge.
For the dust knows nothing more than what she knows.
Shallow particles of deep roots, signifying the physical of life.
Nothing more than what it is, an emblem of life.
But with bitter denial from these life vessels.
Forgotten their roots and forgotten where they come from.
But vanquish and elaborate the true fact of their existence by existing with no clue of existence.
Drifting with the wind of nothingness.
Alive but buried with bones of uncertainty and confusion.
Living with no focus for they are dead within.
Dead flesh, dead dust.
Breathing in the dust of ones long gone, adding to their ever growing death.
And I feel sorry for a lost dust because it was being appreciated when death occurred, and share flowers to the dust and weep from dusty eyes.
But nothing is certain for tomorrow, it is just a dusty life.
As we weep, so shall we be wept for.
Centuries to come, unearthed from within the ground to be trampled upon as the sands of time.
Dust we are, dust we will remain.
