I am allergic to dust, it triggers my asthma/
yet to remove the dust I must clean my house/
I lift dust into the air, motes of dust dancing everywhere/
Eyes half closed against the sun, the twinkling dust surrounds me/
little points of light, they fills my lungs, and as I choke I wonder.
Am I Goliath and is the dust my David?
Dust spreads around, a herald of entropy/
on blogs, on minds, on social mentality/
yet when it rains, dust turns to mud/
pushed away, heralds a flood.
Dust will settle again, but for now, my lungs will be free.
1 comment:
So one day you will unavoidably become dust, but you are allergic to dust so there are these facts
1)you are allergic to yourself
2)you can't be dust because you are allergic to it, so you are immortal
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