Dust
It sits atop my windowsill
The breeze whispering words
Blowing gently until each particle dances across my fingertips.
It mocks me,
tickling my senses as it settles.
Anger
a ghost of my conscience
tapping my shoulder with apparent urgency,
perched on my bedside,
the shadow of its long, crooked fingers
digging into my soul.
Hope
a sword, sharp and slick
stabbing with passion through the dense red cloud of my frustration
shining with gold,
holding a halo above my pain stricken head,
until it settles
it all settles
dust mocks me
the way it rests
waiting for the next cool breeze to throw it into oblivion
until it trickles back down
where it may sit again
though my dust never seems to settle,
and continues to drift,
light still shines through the clear windowsill
and the breeze will soon rest.
YOU ARE READING
C'est La Vie
Poesíaa collection of poetry made for laughs, smiles, late night crying, philosophical life questions and self worth revelations. indulge and enjoy
