The dust of time settles on everything,
I feel its coldness against my warm skin.
My pulse pounds at the ribs, fighting its way out,
Life sheds its days like an autumn tree,
while its leaves let go.
So tell me, does this make me free
from the weight of what it’s truly all about?
The dust of time clings to my every step.
A dark, cruel spider waits within the web
that emptiness weaves from the fleeting days.
Though I look as if I do not care,
do not trust me — a quiet, deep despair
like dry riverbeds cut across my face.
Blow, and try to sweep away the dust.
Beware! It’s settling on the past.
Watch how life releases its taste,
If you copy and paste it
Into something beyond the shining Word.
So hold on tight to the wobble board.
Dust of time
© Copyright: Столетов, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126070203827
Свидетельство о публикации №126070203827
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