Dust

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My fingers have touched dust

Swiped them off across surfaces of

Desks, doors, open windows.

I have seen the dust dance

Attended their ballroom in broad

Streaming white sunlight.

Removing them from parts of me

I have taken showers

With hot water in hot summer.

Still, the dust keeps coming back to me

Forms patterns on the smooth and rough ground.

Their existence drives me mad,

And they seem to enjoy my madness.

Maybe, dust is not dust

And I am not me

Only the mad truly exist

In this burning reality.

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~insight07 •

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