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Mar 6
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.
CONTAGION, Copyright © 2020
Andrew Layman
All Rights Reserved.
Written by
Andrew Layman
90
 
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