A man, who is alone,
In world, and in possessions,
Spends hours contemplating
the world outside his walls; but his most relentless
thought of all, is thoughts about the dust upon the floor.
He knows not of his age, just that he feels like
that loathsome dust, he kicks and watches it swirl, as it
Come to rest at his feet,
until the sunsets. Then, and only then,
he dare raise his tired eyes to the window.
the last rays of sun boring holes into his face,
and as he watches the empty road
a salty sweet emotion,
climbs ridge over wrinkle,
as he turns his face away from the window.
They didn’t come again, today.
A brilliant man in his time,
ignored in his present.
A philosopher who could see the depths of a person’s very soul,
if there were only people there for him to do so.
So he rises for the first and last time
from his lonely chair.
And climbs into bed, throwing the dust into chaos,
as they are thrown up into the air.
He settles down to sleep, and dreams
of a crushing figure
pulling him away.
He struggles to run, but his resistance is in vain,
and as he pulls, his body decays,
and the more he screams the more he cannot
Be heard.
And so the man is dragged into a fitful retreat,
of his body and his mind,
no more soul to see,
no one to see him go,
no one to hear as he is like the dust,
who is kicked and thrashed about, without a thought.
Until like the dust, he lays unheard,
and rests, eternal upon the floor.
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