Not but dust,
lies beneath my fingertips.
Each touch braille on a sand dune,
whispering messages of hell.

Not but dust,
erupts from my cracked lips.
Each cough black ash from old bellows,
the remains of young fire.

Not but dust,
enters my quivering nostrils.
Each sniff the perfume of a great king,
in an empty tomb.

Not but dust,
fills my sunken sockets.
Each shape crumbled flecks from an old painting,
a memory fading to a colorless landscape.

Not but dust,
trickles from my ears.
Each sound sand tapping against hourglass,
my final moments slipping by.