When it settles it clings to my lungs and I breathe in, until it becomes me.
Whether ash or rust I can not say but it binds to me either way. What I am becoming from setting sun to dawning day, be it man of dust or man of clay; I do not know I can not say.
Perhaps---- mercy forfend, the breeze will carry me away. Cast down the street in piles and droves spread out to where other humans stay, forgotten like scattered salt, or neglected ashtray.
Flakes of prayers left to swirl about, and gather in the storm, or lay sleeping in the gutter.
Perhaps--- There might be a day in my sojourn, where it shall be my humble priviledge, to renew the ground where youth can play.
But with arid lungs, without mouth and tongue I do not know and I can not say.