Dust

[TranquillityBase]

Dust

No sense to be made
of this little flower
the color of impending death
importunes
every breath is guess work
arrives no where at all

light warped evenings
take the air at odds and ends
train horns punctuate.
To morning
it’s all beginnings, then day explodes
into identical fragments.

No beginning, middle or end
will satisfy this miller.
He grinds everything to dust.

Dust

No sense to be made
of this little flower
the color of impending death
importunes
guess work comes with every breath
arrives no where at all
at end of creation:

light warped evenings
take the air at odds and ends
train horns punctuate.
Scaling another day
just to reach tomorrow.
To hear morning tell it
it’s all beginnings, then day explodes
into identical fragments.

No beginning , middle or end
will satisfy this miller.
He grinds everything to dust.