A speck of dust upon a speck of dust
Rode slowly in the sunlight round the room,
Along with countless others that were brushed
By Adam’s wife, so handy with the broom.
Her man sat there and tended to assume
That glittering display was for his sake;
Those winking orbs that twirled through the vacuum
Did so for his eyes only, while awake.
But dust just doesn’t care if senses make
Sense of the senseless or if they are hushed
By sleep or death. His eyes, long shut in tomb,
See no more golden stardust, cause no ache
For human acts of creation, no lust.
But all, yes all, continues since his doom.
Thur 26 Apr 2007
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